Her

After she read the e-mail she crept upstairs, hearing each slight creak of wood as if it were thunder. She was in the precarious position of desiring David and yet still feeling some fraction of herself drawn to H. Could a person exist in fractions? She did not know. This was the first time that she felt that she’d truly been in love.

She brushed her teeth vigorously, in round small circles. Most days she thought she had a pretty face. 

Though sometimes it would surprise her, the small nose and pale skin of her reflection rising up to meet her, was she really so white? At night, David would cup her chin in his hands and tell her that she was beautiful, running his fingers along her cheeks and across her lips. And in those moments she could almost believe that she was pretty, though some small part of her always stood back, reserving judgment for some later day.

The top floor of the house was warm in the evenings. David kept the window of his room open, and the smell of honeysuckle would drift in and out with the wind. They had established a kind of routine after five days. She’d knock on the door of his room after the lights were out, so the two of them could process the day. Really, the first night she’d only meant to process the day. Certainly, her mind was capable of wandering elsewhere, but she’d intended to speak only of what his mother thought of her, and how his father laughed so easily. Really, her mind was always in two places. His room was no exception.

She said, “I think I’m falling in love with you,” lying sideways across the bed, her head resting in his lap.

His eyes were alight when he responded in kind. And, in the occasionally beautiful wisdom of the young, they had the good sense to stay silent afterward, to let the gravity of the moment wash over them. Later, they talked of his parents.

“I’ve always loved my father,” he said, absently stroking her hair. “My first memory is of my father. I can feel the sun on my back, and I’m walking across the grass towards my father, and he’s leaning down to pick me up, his hands impossibly large and warm. I don’t know. I might have made it up.”

“That’s strange to me, though I’m glad you have it. I like everyone in your family. It’s like watching the pieces of a puzzle that fit together perfectly.”

“We’re not always perfect.” 

“Of course not. It’s just that my dad was really different than yours. If I had a real first memory of him it would be of him reading the newspaper, very quietly.”

They talked in this way for a while, of family and the way things were before they knew each other and world was set aright. The feel of his fingers on her clavicle was electric. It was as if the wings of a butterfly were flapping against her skin. And beneath that giddy feeling of his touch was another feeling, more violent that she felt herself struggling to control. Perhaps he only wanted to kiss her. Perhaps she only wanted to be kissed.