Sticks and Stones and Rising Voices
seven
He sat out on the patio in his underwear, picking at the shattered tiles, sucking on his Marlboro, reading some old yellowed book. She watched, her bare body clinging to the cotton sheets, wondering if his heart would ever give out for her. He flicked the ash into a dish beside him.
The white fabric around her seemed to rub her skin raw. She kicked the sheets away, but this time her skin crawled. She wanted nothing more than to claw away at her flesh, to be someone else.
Ione picked one of Ewan's shirts from the floor and pulled it over her head. She stood in the doorway, staring down at him for a moment before looking out to the water down the hill. He exhaled the smoke and looked to her, finally running a rough palm over her calf, his milky shade far distanced from her summer color.
She gazed down at him and he smiled.
"Morning." she said.
"Morning." he returned.
A v of ducks frantically flapped overhead. The scent of his cigarette wafted. She closed her eyes and listened to him breathe. The in and out of air in his lungs. She imagined the freckles across his cheeks and those across her nose and how they completed each other. She thought of every groove being filled when they embraced. She thought of all the things they would never experience. And of all the things he wanted.
He read of men fighting, seeing himself in their personification. He encouraged the musk of the vintage page with every twist and turn. He read of the blood lost and the love gained. He read of people he would never meet and places he would never see. Ewan ran his hand over Ione's skin once more.
The white fabric around her seemed to rub her skin raw. She kicked the sheets away, but this time her skin crawled. She wanted nothing more than to claw away at her flesh, to be someone else.
Ione picked one of Ewan's shirts from the floor and pulled it over her head. She stood in the doorway, staring down at him for a moment before looking out to the water down the hill. He exhaled the smoke and looked to her, finally running a rough palm over her calf, his milky shade far distanced from her summer color.
She gazed down at him and he smiled.
"Morning." she said.
"Morning." he returned.
A v of ducks frantically flapped overhead. The scent of his cigarette wafted. She closed her eyes and listened to him breathe. The in and out of air in his lungs. She imagined the freckles across his cheeks and those across her nose and how they completed each other. She thought of every groove being filled when they embraced. She thought of all the things they would never experience. And of all the things he wanted.
He read of men fighting, seeing himself in their personification. He encouraged the musk of the vintage page with every twist and turn. He read of the blood lost and the love gained. He read of people he would never meet and places he would never see. Ewan ran his hand over Ione's skin once more.