his t-shirt has worn thin, a heather grey. the scent of his sweat is masked by a light veil of perfumed deodorant and cologne; each time he moves, the smell creates small ripples that twist the tides that stream toward her nostrils. his laughter is big and full, his eyes--mirrored images in color and light--soft around the edges, his tongue thick and wet behind white-picket walls of teeth.
in the darkness, his face moves slowly, subtle shadows playing along his lips that curl into tiny purpled cheshire-cat smiles. he remains hidden behind his eyes, quickly skimming the shallow dips and curves of her face before fleeing toward the window, the wall, the eighty-two painted ceiling tile. the television flashes images of nazi germany; she covers her face as cries cease in the face of exploding triggers; his eyes pretend to melt like soft cobalt candies beneath a burning summer sun. he is standing at the edge, his toes curled along the lines between falling in and falling out. she tempts him, clicking her tongue, stroking her fingers into his ribs to hear his laughter like bright wedding bells; yet he is kept by gravity, magnetized by the sensible side of himself--never one for whirlwind romance. never one to lie down easily.