He looked down at her slowly, steadily. Two laser beams for a gaze. His eyebrows rose towards each other as if some invisible hand had threaded spiders' web through them, pulling tautly as if closing a stitch or a wound. His eyes, clouded over with whiskey and love, couldn't drink up enough of the sight of her. She stood neatly in the crowded kitchen of her three-bedroom attic apartment.
He confessed to himself that he had not once thought about fucking her. Instead, he was drawn by the pure desire to be selfless. To be enamored and to be looked at by those two planetary, otherworldly orbs. He loved what she loved. He loved the endless fields of sunflowers hidden behind her eyes. No, he could barely conceive fucking her. Not now. Not now that–
True, he had seen her naked, as milk poured out from the hanging moon above and splashing against the rolling nocturnal waves of the Pacific — but that was on the other side of the world from where they were now. He had fallen for her there, then, but he would never have dared tell her. Instead he hoped his love might be whispered on the breaths they shared with each kiss.
He would never have dared attempt to restrict her there — her wild mass of hair twisted and coiled like snakes in a pit. That hair left tangled traces along the surface of most every one of his dreams. She deserved her freedom there. She had needed it, there. But now... well, now he wanted her.
She recognized that look. It was love's devastation, pure and strong and unadulterated. He was fucked. As a result, they both were. Immediately her mind flashed through their instances together, lightning bolts of memories across the gathering storms of her mind. She saw him and she was immediately, profoundly sad. She had a sudden wish tinged with regret. His fingers against her skin, as he pushed her hair behind her ear, were a potent, electric burn.
In spite of herself, she couldn't help but smile. She smiled up at him, somewhere above her where his adoring face hovered. Even as her twin lips curled she regretted it. She hadn't meant to. She belonged to another.
There it was again. The milk of her body mere inches away. Her bed was big, white, holy. Her room, shadow upon shadow upon shadow, save for the weak first-morning sunlight gleaming steadily through the tightly shut blinds above her bed. It cast a blue glow across her nearly naked body, sprawled out before him like an undeserved offering. He wondered how on Earth he had gotten there – true, for the life of him he couldn't remember the trip from the kitchen to this bed, this altar. Regardless of the manner, there they both were.
Kissing her, touching her, was magic. Her pink mouth, two lips and gentle, seeking tongue, were more delicate, more sensitive than the machines used to detect earthquakes from miles and miles away. It was just as he made this connection that he felt her two warm palms press against his chest and the thought dissipated, vanished into smoke, into nothing.
She had oceans in her eyes. Water, clean and crystalline, had gathered atop each roving pupil. Suddenly he felt a shift and somehow he understood. He felt sick. Suddenly he couldn't be there anymore, in that white cotton bed with that white cotton girl. His exit, too, was sudden: little more than a swift sweep of his clothes, his hat, and shutting doors. He got dressed in the hallway, unable to bear her presence while he pulled on his pants, buttoned his shirt….
Out of his sight, she wept. Atop her altar, alone and crumpled, the climbing knots of her spine aligned neatly with the horizontal shadows cast by the blinds and the daylight outdoors, growing golden slowly.
Kasia Pilat is a Boston University graduate with a Journalism degree, she spends her time writing, taking photos, drawing faces, tap dancing, meeting new people and procrastinating. She is a staff writer for The Inclusive.