Things are sweeter when they're lost. I know--because once I wanted something and got it. It was the only thing I ever wanted badly, and when I got it it turned to dust in my hand.
I
f I could hear her thoughts, I might argue that nothing can prelude romance more effectively than sidelong glances shared between golden slants of light. The way one eye catches another—the hot flush of excitement, hidden by an equal rush of timidity. That is romance, at the pinnacle; that is how every love affair starts, with those too-long, too-quiet, too-chaste stares.I suppose my shyness—my inability to talk to her—stems from the eerie familiarity she possesses. It makes no sense for her to remind me of someone I cannot remember. And yet, she does remind me of someone. That may very well be the reason I stand a little too long, a little too awkwardly, away from her. That might be why my eyes linger in a way that is not possessive but borderline analytic. Where have I seen her? My other life had been drawn out and long. I had met many men and women—
But my body is responding more quickly than my thoughts, for once, and I am already beside her. Of course. I would appreciate the company. You can tell me what you’ve been reading, since we so often seem to split custody of the library’s contents.
Again, that almost imperceptible twitching of my lips. What have I been reading? The question puts me at ease, and together we begin to walk the same direction she had been going.
“Les Misérables, has been my most recent choice.” It is silent a moment, as I remember the readings; love, and justice, and injustice. The subject matter is close to heart, but I will not go into such complexities. I clear my throat and add, “But I have juggled that alongside some less academic literature. Scarab, the Shattered Isle for one, and The Night Order for another. Truly, fascinating histories, as pertaining to Novus and beyond. The Diary of Oresziah is another, although that is a fragmented document, and—”
I find myself rambling more than I would like. I pause, glancing at her sidelong—and when I catch myself in my own shyness, I turn to look at her fully. “And you, Ms. Katerina? What has captured your recent interest?”
The night is a chorus of crickets and cicadas. I have always expected the dark to be a time of silence; but as we walk, I discover that the forest around us is as alive as my chest feels.
