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I know exactly how far I’d have to move to kiss her, and it’s not far enough.
“I can see every single hair on your face,” she tells me.
“I shaved. ”
“No, I mean, like, your pores. I can see all the places where the hairs come out. It’s weird. ”
“It’s not weird. It’s my face. ”
“Your face is weird, though, West. ”
“Thanks. ”
She laughs, a wash of spearmint-scented breath over my ear. “Please. You don’t need me to tell you how pretty you are. ”
“Guys aren’t pretty. ”
“Have you seen your roommate? He’s the prettiest girl on campus. ”
“You should tell him that sometime. He’d be so pissed. ”
“It’s not like it’s hurting him in the dating department. ”
“Krish doesn’t date, Caro. ”
“You know what I mean. ” She leans closer.
“Why are you hovering over me like a vulture?”
“I like watching your jaw move when you talk. I can see, like, muscles and stuff. I never noticed before. ”
“Maybe ’cause we don’t usually talk with your face three inches away. ”
“That’s probably why,” she says solemnly.
“Or because you’re stoned. ”
“Another strong possibility. ”
I close my eyes. I feel like something important is slipping away from me and I’m supposed to want it back, but I don’t. I don’t want anything that means I’m supposed to keep apart from her.
“You are, though,” she says.
“What am I?”
I want her to tell me what I am. I walked in to this house of hers, this house with its big white columns marching along the front and its granite countertops, the deep white carpet in the living room that must be new because there’s not a stain on it. I walked in and got lost.
I don’t know who I am. She’s the only thing here I recognize, and it makes it harder to remember why I’m not supposed to put my hands back on her hips, pull her on top of me, kiss her cold lips, and push my fingers underneath her hat to feel the warmth of her hair, her head in my hands.
The only thing I know in this place is Caroline.
What am I?
When I open my eyes, she’s right there, looking at me. Looking into me.
She strokes one light fingertip along the bridge of my nose, pausing at the tip. Then skips down to the groove above my mouth. Over my upper lip. She’s drawing me with her finger, and it brings something up that I’ve shoved down inside me, buried in earth, covered over with a rock.
I don’t know what to call it. Greed. Need.
