Fall Shook Up

by Piper Sheldon

I’d overshared her into silence. She had seemed so genuinely interested in my work, but I had a habit of always going just a little too far and not realizing it until the person was already gone. Then again, her silence could be because she was currently caged in by my arms. What was I thinking? I wasn’t. As was beginning to be the pattern around her. I was so caught up in the moment that I touched her without thinking. Now she stood in my embrace like a lover, her sweet floral scent rattling my peanut-sized brain. She was soft and warm and pliant. All I’d touched for so long was unforgiving, weathered pieces of wood—she’d have a field day with that one. When was the last time I’d even touched a woman, let alone one who seemed to infiltrate my brain with her nosy questioning, deep dimples, and wide smile that made my brain blank out? Had I remembered to breathe? My lungs ached. If I inhaled her now, the memory of her would be latched to this exact moment, and I’d be cursed to relive this yearning every time I smelled anything close to this combination of sweet florals, wood shavings, and whatever made her scent hers.