T
his girl in the crowd is like a dream. Bexley sees her moving through the sea of bodies and thinks of the first time she met Michael: how for that first, brief heartbeat, she thought she had finally gone crazy. That she was seeing things. That this stranger looked so much like her it had to be an illusion—was that not the only reasonable explanation? It was her magic playing tricks on her, spiraling out of control in the light of the afternoon. And seeing this girl for the first time, she feels the same sense of unsettlement. Her stomach turns. Her chest grows tight, then lets itself out, and the rush of oxygen that comes in is enough to make her briefly dizzy.
Part of it must be the surprise. Part of it is that this girl is beautiful, the star on her forehead perfectly clear, her hair white as snow, her skin closer to bright sunlight than beaten gold.
The next part of it, then, must be that Bexley feels vaguely threatened. Right now her beauty might be all she has. If someone else looks just as beautiful—beautiful in the same exact way, even—then she must be a threat.
(Sometimes I dream of kissing myself. In the mirror my mouth is cold and soft. I wish this were real. If I loved myself I could never leave—)
Bexley’s mouth burns with the taste and scent of alcohol. Her nose wrinkles. When she turns over her shoulder to look at the stranger, her gaze is narrow and fierce; the blue of them sparkles like embers, smoldering from under thick, dark lashes. It is not a friendly expression. But neither is it an expression of hostility. Just deep, flame-bright interest.
“I haven’t,” the Solterran remarks. Her voice is low, dark and warm; it rasps against itself with all the juicy, luxurious grittiness of a pomegranate’s seeds tumbling against one another in a golden bowl.
There is not much space between them. The air is warm and thick, and it rests against Bexley’s skin like a silk sheet. She searches Elena’s face, not remotely embarrassed of just how long she stares: working over every inch of the stranger’s expression, noting the sadness in her blue eyes, her ducked head, the slight turn of surprise in her mouth.
She stares and stares and stares, cool, intense.
Some part of her winces at the mention of motherhood. Some part of her cringes when she realizes just how long it’s been since she’s seen her own daughter—just how old O is, now, and how old that makes her. Bexley lets out a little sigh; she banishes those thoughts from her head, and turns them all toward the girl. The girl and how breakable she looks.
(Sometimes I dream of kissing myself. Sometimes it feels better to break the mirror.)
“You’re not from here,” Bexley purrs, shifting a little closer, “are you?”
@Elena speaks
bexley
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