He sweats lemonade on a hot day in July. Our only form of talking is through locked eyes. The scent of musk cologne is like cognac. His veins cover his body like a roadmap. Hundreds of blue lines just below his skin. My fingertips trace them, from beginning to end. A hot kiss leaves a minty fog on my lip. Chocolate hands blend into cocoa hips. Tangled hair, mangled clothes, bangle bracelets. Twisted love, muddled minds, losing patience. My ear to his chest, his heart a beating drum. It was probably a test, but I was drunk off of rum.
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TICK TOCK
11.59. Even though the glass had shattered, Lorna could still see that her watch ticked over. One minute until midnight. Her watch was the only thing she had that she could carry. The only thing to remember her parents by. A birthday present from last year, the year she turned seventeen.
By Elizabeth Butler3 days ago in Fiction
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