My Torin

by K. Webster

As I leave, I sense Torin. He’s watching. He’s always watching. I should warn her. But I don’t.

“He likes you.” He runs his palm over the back of his neck and regards me as if I’m some all-knowing oracle. “He looks at you, Casey. He fucking looks at you.”

I’ll give you all the pennies, Casey. I’ll give you them all.

I’d say her laugh is soft like a feather fluttering along a porch floor. You want to pick it up and touch it, but you don’t want to ruin its journey. It’s perfect as it moves along, undisturbed. The sound is one that can’t be described. It just is. A sound that finds its way down into the very marrow of your bones. Roots inside and lives there. Quivers and quakes—a constant reminder that it’s there.

Pretty is one word and she is many. Beautiful. Alluring. Appealing. Charming. Cute. Dazzling. Delicate. Delightful. Elegant. Exquisite. Fascinating. Fine. Gorgeous. Graceful. Lovely. Magnificent. Marvelous. Pleasing. Splendid. Stunning. Wonderful. Superb. Angelic. Bewitching. Classy. Divine. Excellent. Enticing. Foxy. Fair. Pulchritudinous. Radiant. Ravishing. Resplendent. Shapely. Beautiful.

Mine. Holy shit. Did Torin just claim me?

I couldn’t choose one type to represent you. You’re everything at once. Every pretty thing in one breathtaking package.

Me: I don’t know how to love. Tyler: Love isn’t something you can control. It controls you. Fills you up and infects every part of you until all you can do is just live and breathe it every second of every day. Me: Sounds like a disease. Tyler: Love is a cure.

She is my woman. And I don’t care if I have to write them both an email, attaching a forty-page PowerPoint presentation explaining that she’s mine, because I will. I so fucking will.

A tear rolls down his cheek, catching me by surprise. “I laughed for you.”