and there she was. waking up in some damn maxfield parrish-esque version of her life. looking around, his finger on her pulse. easily unconscious yet heightened awareness. the one that she never had a problem falling asleep next to. words drip drip drip and she lets them hit her knee as she looks up at the sky, and with a giggle, returns the favor. words are not the problem. while she leaned over in the mud, hammer in hand, nails hanging off her lip, the irony is not lost. she knows what she needs and knows that this chapter must take a new turn.

that abyss is nothing she fears. there is a way for her to find that path. her curves determine his direction and her carelessness affects her swagger. she knows. she fears. she storms. she lets it flow. last night she dreamed of the kind of hot water that makes you dip, then pull up, then dip ever so slowly until fully immersed, sweat on brow but at a new rhythm.

you know that intensity, that level of truth that gives you the freedom to unleash all that is beautiful and good in yourself? where you know that look in his eye says you give him what fills his soul? that instantaneous flashback to his gaze down from the ladder, holding your heart in a frame and…you just let him.

so she won’t say. she won’t name it this time around. she will give him her words. she will learn to give to herself what she always gave to others. and him? she lets that story write itself.


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