In The Garden
For a moment, his mask of convalescence wavered. The three words had made a dull, awkward thud in the air. Even the dizzying rush of her blood couldn’t have drowned out the whisper. She turned, like a frightened fawn, to the source of the noise.
"What?" she said, staring at his lips.
"Nothing. You're just really good, thats all. I di-" his eyes sparked as he turned his head away.
away from her flammable skin, and gasoline breasts, and soft fingers that would go up like kindling.
She looked at her pale hand settled on his hip, at his prone body in the glow of the city light, and blinked with effort.
There was no danger in this pure heat, no electricity.
They were warm, and rapt, and comfortable; hills and valleys of touch and taste.
She knew his body like she knew her own, and there had been no danger in that,
until sighs had become words
and his look become a gaze.
And her hand began to burn.
And so she slipped through the cool sheets, leaving the three words in a clatter on the floor.
Too afraid to see where the words might have fallen- over the side of the bed, where his head pressed angrily against his pillow.
Clicking the lock, eyes heavy, she escaped a fire that would have consumed them both.
Part of an unfinished story.
Yes? No? Ideas? anything?
Better, Em?