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Tuesday, February 28, 2006
He steals the inside, wedging himself into the tiny crevice between the wall and her body. "Stop it," she whines, her mouth pursed up in a pout, with all the indignation of every spoilt little girl you could find.
"But you always get the inside."
"Fine," she says. She makes some room for him as if she's doing him a favour, but secretly, she likes it better this way. They are like jellyfish with their tentacles all tangled, wrapped up so tight you can't tell where he ends and she begins. It's storming outside; the rain drums down on the window like rhythm to twelve bar blues. Every now and then, the sky delivers a stroke of lightning so bright it seems like day has come to steal the night away.
"I love it when it rains like this," she says, "I used to sit on the windowsill at home with my legs dangling, and I'd watch as these big fat raindrops came down on my feet." He laughs, and she can tell that he's picturing her there in his head. "The neighbours used to look at me like I was crazy. Their little girl was all wrapped up in her mummy's arms crying for the thunder and lightning to stop, while this little girl sat and welcomed the rain."
Kissing her shoulder, he whispers, "Well, I like you better this way." He rests his head in the nook of her neck; his breath heavy upon her collarbone. "You know, I've never told anyone these things before." But he doesn't hear her; he falls asleep so quickly. In the silence, she adjusts her breathing to match his; their chests rising and falling in complete synchrony. How strange the speed with which two human bodies learn to form such symmetry. "You make me so much weaker than I'm used to," she thinks, just before the storm outside lays her down to sleep.
He steals the inside.
sherry @ 11:14:00 am
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