Page 113 of Creatures that Breathe

Semantics.

In the corner of the room, bare feet on the herringbone tile, Leni hovers over a spread of washed berries, tracing the rim of an empty crystal flute. She’s in my shirt. Only my shirt.

She hasn’t looked at me since she stepped inside.

She’s nervous.

In another reality, I would be prepared for tender consummation. If only Leni were my wife. If only it were that simple. If only we could wait, we could move slowly, one touch snowballing into a million.

Envy.

Add it to the list.

I picture Leni in a gown the same lovely periwinkle shade as her hair. A corset elegantly beaded. Sleeveless to display her tattoos, a bright train as long as the aisle chasing after her, pink, purple, orange flowers hung loosely in her hand, a mischievous smile as she approaches me, as if our entire wedding is a whimsical charade, as if she’s only playing along to relish in the gossip at the reception, where she’ll pretend she can’t hear a thing.

And after, when we’re alone, I’ll undo the buttons down her back one by one while she regales everything she learned, my little information thief.

Longing spreads through me like a wild.

“Good?” I ask, shattering the silence.

I steel myself for a jolt or jump or scream, in case she forgot I’m here.

She just shrugs, still picking between raspberries. “You’re a fruit guy,” she discerns, glancing over her shoulder.

I swallow tightly. “I like to eat healthy, you eat …”

“Artificial magic sugar?” she offers, tilting her head in the way she does, bangs spilling across her forehead.

“Yes. I compromised.”

She grins. Grins. Wearing my shirt, in my room, smelling like soap and honeysuckle, and I don’t know how to react to her looking mine already. Before, all I wanted was to make her mine, and now… here she is. Mine.

It’s done nothing to ease my possessiveness.

Gentle, she’d whispered, eyes misty.

Gentle.

If it kills me.

And even then.

She fiddles with the cork of the iced champagne, removing the foil in flaky silver pieces. “It’s here, isn’t it?” She wets her lips with the tip of her tongue. “We should drink it.”

I put my hand out for the bottle and pop the cork into my palm, flooding her glass with shimmering gold. Set the bottle down without filling the other flute.

“You don’t want any?”

I toy with the hem of her shirt, fingers smoothing black cotton, knuckles dragging over the flesh just above her knee. “If alcohol helps you unwind, or forget, or stomach what’s to come, I understand. But I want to remember of detail.”

And keep my wits, maintain control.

Leni drinks and twists back to the food, popping three, four blackberries into her mouth.

Skittish. Delaying the inevitable.

I wish I had words of comfort, or advice.

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