Page 5 of Those Eyes, That Mouth

“Fuck.” I didn't know what else to say. I didn't want to act shocked. I didn't want to make him feel bad about it.

He kept talking, like he needed to get it all out. “That’s why my mom’s so stuck on me doing pre-med. She thinks if I become a doctor I’ll turn out to be everything my dad wasn’t." He laughed, but it didn't sound happy.

He brushed past the moment. He took the cigarette back from me—fingers touching mine again—and grabbed the lighter off the trunk. Then he lay back on the bed against his pillow, scooting over close to the wall, obviously leaving room for me.

He lit the cigarette, took a drag, and held it out like a joint. Like he was expecting me to lie down beside him and share it.

I stood quickly, almost tripping over my own feet, and went over to the turntable. I flipped the record to Side B and set the needle down. The second I heard the first notes, I hurried back to the bed.

I scooted in beside him, our heads on a single pillow.

It was a twin bed. We were touching all down our sides—arms, elbows, hips, thighs.

We lay on our backs in matching poses, one arm behind our heads.

Nathan passed me the cigarette. I brought it to my lips—the end still wet from his mouth—and inhaled. When I handed it back, his eyes met mine for a second—just a second—before he looked away and took a drag.

We didn't talk. We just shared the smoke in silence, watching it curl up toward the bunk above us.

We were touching the same paper with our lips, over and over.

The light in the room was fading. Gold rectangles still stretched across the floor, but here on the bottom bunk, we were tucked away in the shadows.

A cool cross-breeze drifted through.

A door slammed somewhere above us, and footsteps pounded down the stairwell.

It all sounded a thousand miles away.

The song playing now was slower, more hypnotic.

Nathan reached across me to stub the cigarette out. I stayed perfectly still as his chest brushed my arm. For that one second, the scent of peppermint and citrus filled my head and his body heat pinned me to the mattress. He settled back into his pillow.

The song ended.

The silence lasted only a heartbeat before the final track took over.

This was my favorite—“Those Eyes, That Mouth."

I almost announced the title like a radio DJ, but my throat was too tight. When I listened to it alone, it always made me tear up. Any attempt at a "cool" introduction would have ended in a cracked voice.

I said nothing.

The song began with a sharp, insistent beat—drums like a march with bright guitar notes ringing in rhythmic pulses. Then Liz Fraser's voice came in, low and full-throated, chanting in that hypnotic rhythm. Something between nursery rhyme and incantation.

The lyrics were unintelligible, but the title alone said everything it needed to.

I barely heard the music anymore. My heart was beating so hard I was sure Nathan could feel the bed vibrating. Every point of contact between us felt amplified—shoulder, hip, thigh.

The cigarette had burned down fast. The song was already half over.

I felt like I should ask about his dad. About the pot and him being in prison. Find some way to bring it up that didn't sound like I was judging either of them. But I couldn't think of how to word it.

I couldn't focus on anything except Nathan beside me.

The smell of him—peppermint and something citrusy. I had this sudden urge to roll toward him, bury my face in his armpit. He had these deep pits with gold hair, and I⁠—

Stop.