She was so short this close. So warm. She had made Isabel so angry and Isabel’s face felt heavy, and a foreign thing pulled at her from behind her navel. Pulled. She turned to Eva—a fraction of a movement. Eva swayed, leaned first away and then, all at once, toward—tiptoes. She kissed her again. It was a press of a mouth this time: Isabel’s sharp inhale, Eva’s top lip between hers. Heat, the quickest bloom: the pressure of Eva’s fingers to her shoulder, her chest to Eva’s, her kiss. Their lips clung when Eva pulled back with a raindrop of a sound. “Oh,” Eva said. “You resemble him so much.”
