Tuesday, September 29, 2015

Twenty-seven, Twenty-eight

Yesterday, she spent a good hour of the evening trying to fill a narrow-necked travel container with body butter. Any sane person would've opted for a more liquidy alternative, but it just had to be that one particular body butter, it had to be.

Seeing each other after three months of screenshotted snapchats and whispered voicenotes pressed against their ears felt like a thousand deaths in reverse. He had the biggest, goofiest smile on his face, and if you were to tally his steps, you would come up a couple short (he more than skipped a few).

"Y5rb betk, w7shteny," he laughed, and she looked away; like the sight of him was too much to take in, like she needed a few seconds to believe it was actually him in front of her.

Then he went in for that hug he had asked permission for two weeks ago. His chest felt like one endless drum-roll, and when she pressed her hands against his back, he pulled her closer, held on a little tighter; even though her one condition for allowing him to hug her was for it to be quick and brief.

"Amot bre7tk," he whispered, "Wdy aklk akl."

And despite all previously-made threats, all she could bring herself to do was unbuckle her knees and die,

and die,

and die.

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