A Way Out
A Way Out: A Short Story
It was her 3rd week of writing in the little black book. He would sometimes peek at the contents. She had intertwined favorite quotes, a recipe or two (when was she ever cooking?), three gratitude platitudes a day, some class notes from a manifestation course she picked up, and one flattened peachy-pink flower that reminded him of her laughing blush. She didn't blush or laugh much anymore. She was too busy writing her way out. She was a toucher; she liked things she could pick up and hold, feel their texture. Their place had filled with magical, feel-good baubles ever since he’d met her, blue velvet ribbons around his blackout drapes, smooth and shiny selenite bookends, the softest towels, even the kitchenware had cozies. She once told him she wished that she had his soft skin. Sometimes he thought he caught a moment where she caressed the soft leather right before setting it aside and fixing her tea and getting down to business. If she felt him looking, she might for a hesitant moment slip a sideways glance his direction and he’d smile. She could feel him smile. He knew that. They used to pretend they could feel each other’s gazes just before they journeyed up the body to meet the other’s —- he wasn’t always sure that was true before or that she felt it just like he had, but now he was sure.