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“No, not like that. It makes me admire you.”
“Because I tried to kill myself?” Her eyes narrow.
“No. Because you survived it.”
She pulls her legs up onto the couch and turns to face me, her plate forgotten.
“I see scars every day,” I tell her. “It’s kind of my specialty. And I understand why people want to cover them up. I really do. But sometimes I wish they would leave them.”
“Why?” Her face is tight and almost angry.
“Because scars mean you healed. You went through a trauma and your body healed. Scars mean you came out the other side. You survived.”
Her face softens.
“But I can also understand the need to cover them. That’s why I try to make beautiful art that means something, to cover them up.” I hold up my hands like I’m surrendering. “That’s all I meant. I promise.”
“I survived,” she signs.
I smile at her. “Yes, you did.”
Suddenly she leans over toward me, and her mouth hovers a breath from mine. I don’t even take time to think about it. I kiss her. I kiss her hard, just like I have wanted to do since I met her.
She tastes like garlic and want.
She tastes like all the things I can’t have. But for some stupid reason, I’m taking them anyway.
Lark
Oh, God. His lips are on mine and his hand gently cups my neck, holding me close to him, his thumb swiping down the tender tendon at the front of my throat in gentle passes, the tips of his fingers sweeping behind my ear.
He pulls back, lifting his mouth from mine long enough to look into my eyes, asking me silently if this is okay. I nod my head and lean back over to kiss him again. He pulls me into his lap and I go willingly, sinking into him. He pulls back again and says with his voice, “Too fast?” The words are soft and unwieldy, but I understand him.
“Not too fast,” I say. I kiss him again, but he’s already pulling back.
“No,” he says. “Too fast for me.” He points to his chest. His breaths are heaving from him, and I can feel the ridge of his dick pressing against my bottom. He’s hard. He’s turned on. I know he is.
But I scurry back to my side of the couch. “I’m so sorry,” I say.
“Wait,” he says. He reaches for me. “Don’t go.”
But I pull so far back that he can’t reach me, and then I ge
t to my feet. My legs feel like rubber, and shame floods my face with heat. I go to the kitchen and pretend to rummage in the refrigerator, but I’m not looking for anything in particular. I surface with a jar of jelly and nothing else. He walks into the kitchen behind me, subtly adjusting himself.
He eyes the jar in my hand. “Did you have a sudden urge for strawberry jam?” he asks, his eyes laughing along with his mouth.
“Yes.” I pull out a spoon and dip it into the jelly, and lift it to my lips upside down. Then I feel stupid, so I just leave it jammed in my mouth.
“I like jelly,” he says. I shove the jar toward him and it skids across the counter. He catches it right before it careens off the edge and slams onto the tiles. “Thanks,” he says with a grin. Then he goes to the drawer and takes out a spoon, dips it into the jelly, and sticks it in his mouth. “Best thing about being deaf is that we can talk with our mouths full,” he signs.
I grin, still sucking on the spoon, although all the jelly is gone. He reaches over and pulls the spoon from my mouth. Then he tosses both our spoons into the sinks with a loud clatter.
“You want to tell me what that was all about?” He jerks his thumb toward the couch.
“Would you believe I really wanted some jelly?”
He barks out a laugh. “Does that craving happen often?”
