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Snowflakes dapple his lashes, surrounding irises the color of pewter. He’s the most infinite thing she has ever seen.
The mismatched tracks wind through the trees like an awkward kind of signature—his signature.
“You got plans to prey on someone else?” “No.” “Well, that’s a relief,” he quips. “After all, you said I was special. I’d like this danger thing to be exclusive.”
“No matter how much you make sense of them, they stay transcendent. We should be used to them because they’re always around, like the sea and the soil, but . . .” She treads carefully. “But they constantly astound me. They are—they seem—capable of grand things, and people think of them in grand ways, even though they’ve been given all the rational, technical explanations.”
And it’s over. And she feels bereft, cheated, newly afraid.
She spent the evening with a boy who’s slowly destroying her, yet it was the nicest night she’s ever had.
The story is heavy in her hands, split open like legs, the letters very small in spite of describing such a big moment.
His voice makes the intonations of everyone else seem mass produced, unvarying and unspectacular by comparison. She wants to store the sound of him in a jar and carry it everywhere she goes.
The chime of his laughter, as wonderful as hearing the stars’ laugh, eclipses the truck’s drone.
And the corner of his mouth quirks, reminding her of a letter written in cursive.
Please, tell me. What are you hiding? Andrew could take his pick. She’s hiding the stars, the snowfall, the soil, the human heart, and the laws of immortal destiny.
“I like that make-believe reveals the truth from a different angle.”
Living in the forest is a quiet affair, but since Andrew first pried a word out of her, she’s been unable to seal herself back up. Everything inside her has been loud and hysterical since.
He lifts the mug of tea to his mouth and sips. “What’s in this?” The way his forehead crinkles brings out the naughty in her. “Spring,” she says, keeping a straight face. “Spring.” “Yes. Peonies, dewdrops, a dash of the sunlight, the afterglow of sex—” He lurches forward and spits out the tea.
She wants to punch him. In the face. Hard. Cover that watercolor with one of her own. Then she wants to kiss it, softly, until she has no more soft left in her.
They could find scenes that describe coves and then discover one another’s bodies there, lying in the sand together and drawing out each other’s sighs.
Love wants love. From the way it looks, it must be wonderful.
We haven’t had much opportunity to connect like friends do, but I’m one hundred percent attached to your laugh.
“I did my best to fix it,” she says. “I never wanted to ruin your words. I brought them back to you one night.”
You can wreck me, and I’ll still forgive you. I can’t help it. I have it bad for you, Love.”
She falls into his lips, thinking that maybe kisses have a bottom. Maybe she can find it, and if she does, that’s where she will hide.
