This Must Be the Place

by Maggie O'Farrell

Maeve looks at her. She looks and looks. If she was a liquid, she would drink her; if she was a gas, she would breathe her in; if she was a pill, she would down her; a dress, she would wear her; a plate, she would lick her clean. Her hands gripping the hem of her undershirt, her toes flexed in midair, the place at her temples where the black hair crowds in. Her eyelids are the shape of a bird’s wings, her rib cage delicate branches. Her realness, her corporeality, the way her lungs go in and out, the way she turns her head to look around, take Maeve’s breath away. She cannot believe she is here, cannot believe she is hers.