Grim

by D.J. Krimmer

Because I cannot be hurt again if I do not open myself up. Because the poets and romantics got it wrong. It is better to have never loved at all. Because without feeling, there is no pain, and a world without pain works pretty fucking well for me.

Our mouths move desperately between us. Decorum is set aside for desperation, risk over rationality. Time stands still, and I realize I could gladly stay here for the next several centuries.

He kissed me like he was dying. Or like I was. And now? He won’t even look at me. I stare down at my hands. They’re still shaking. From the grief, from the boy’s story. From Kane. I don’t know what he’s thinking. I don’t know if he regrets it. But I do know this: I’ve never been kissed like that before. Like I mattered. Like I was something to be treasured. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. Even if he already has.

“Live a little, Kane.” “I did—centuries ago. Overrated, in all honesty.”

“What’s your favorite color?” she asks out of nowhere. It’s such a human question. The unexpectedness of it catches me off guard.

“You asked me a question and then proceeded to answer it yourself?” “Well, you were taking too long,” she teases, licking a stray drop of ice cream from her spoon.

“The color of the sky before a storm,” she murmurs, watching the clouds roll overhead. “When it’s almost black but still blue. When it looks like it’s holding something wild inside it, something waiting to break loose.”