She leant back and let the blade of his shoulder frame the picture, for that’s how she would replay it in her head. And her finger drew concentric circles over the hole in his jumper, and he watched her and forgot the advice his father had given him about women. The answer to the question about time pushing on his teeth was unwelcome and his two fingers could wrap around her ankle and she could bite his thumb just hard enough to make his face contort with some deep emotion, but not hard enough for it to bleed. His right hand tickled her upper arm, she responded with a miniature kiss. He was pretty like a doll and had hair that fell perfectly, contracting like a shy animal back into ringlets when it got wet. His teeth were jagged and handsome, and his face flushed when he sat under his desk lamp for too long. She had harsh eyes, and soft hair and looked always in thought, for the top shelf of her mouth naturally perched open. Their hands squeezed like a ribcage and if she told him about the things she kept in her bedside table that reminded her of him it brought tears to some surface. He worried that she was too good for him, and that he wasn’t good enough to be with just one woman. He worried that this was something she also knew, and he worried that this was why she was crying. And they lay there, right in the skin of the moment, with hope not to break themselves.
Image Credit: Charlotte Bunney