“It’s not a closet, it’s a cabinet. I just store some backup clothes in the rare case that nights like last night occur. If you’ll excuse me, I need to change.”
He nods his head once, opening the door and finally leaving with my battered book in the crook of his arm.
I exhale a sigh of relief and change into my stretchwear set. I may be late, but I refuse to skip daily stretches. I’m not a fitness fanatic—I can’t remember the last time I even ran for enjoyment, if ever. However, I do take stretching seriously. I find stretching my body daily is a solid way to reset after particularly stressful times. It’s a habit I formed in my life before death.
Sports haven’t ever come naturally for me. During my youth, back in the ’70s, I tried several—volleyball, softball, tennis. I gave them my all and never failed to come up short in any of them. The truth of the matter is, I lacked hand-eye coordination, grew flustered when the ball landed in my hands, and had the tendency to fumble embarrassingly often. I trusted in the process, though, hoping I’d eventually discover the sport I was destined to play. As the years passed, I pushed myself through the humiliation, deciding that my tennis skills, although minimal, were enough to get me through.
As I grew older and entered my teenage years, my range of passions widened. I took an interest in the arts, growing especially fond of music. During high school, I enrolled in social dance classes and used every excuse I could to go out dancing with friends. As time passed, I chose to spend extra time refining the dance moves I’d learned from the comfort of my home, using my younger brother’s latest Panasonic stereo. My siblings got onto me for hogging the radio, but I couldn’t help it—dancing to music called to me in a way no other physical activity had up until that point.
Nimble and light on my feet, I gained a fair amount of attention for my dancing—both welcome and unwelcome attention. I don’t care much for the spotlight, but the feeling of dancing under a disco ball surrounded by other free-spirited dancers and some of my closest friends was out of this world. I didn’t care about how many eyes were on me, because in those moments, nothing mattered more than the harmonies of the music.
Many didn’t classify dance as a sport at that time, but I unapologetically treated it like one. Eventually, I dropped out of tennis and chose to make dancing my preferred sport.
I mean, have you ever danced for three hours straight? No one can deny it’s a workout, and if they do, they’re full of it. Hearing that dance is considered a sport in the land below nowadays makes me so ridiculously happy.
It’s been a long time since I gave myself to music in the way I once did. I’ve attended a few parties since joining Eloras, but music hasn’t brought me the same sense of belonging as it did before. I still prioritize stretching the same way as I did back then, though. I’ve stretched nearly every day for several years.
At this point, I don’t stretch to perfect my body. My physical body is in the best state it’s ever been, thanks to you know,dying. I stretch to find relief.
After the morning I’ve had, relief is much needed.
I pull out my cloud matt—a weightless matt that feels like a layer of cotton—from under my desk, placing it parallel to my couch on the floor. Stepping onto it, my toes curl into the airy fluff, molding into it. I close my eyes and begin a consolidated stretch routine for today, starting with the basics—touching my toes.
My wings make it all too easy to topple over, so I focus on maintaining balance, pushing them outward and stretching them wide as I bend. I could tuck them away, which would make my stretches notably easier, but I don’t mind the challenge.
In fact, I welcome it.
Twelve
Kai
We slept together a week ago. It’s a good thing that angels don’thaveto sleep every night because I haven’t slept a wink since. It’s been ages since I shared a bed—or couch, for that matter—with anyone.
The other day while removing countless books from the shelves and placing them into sections based on chronological order, I cracked a joke about our night together. Cleo didn’t laugh like I’d hoped she would.
Honestly, she’s hardly acknowledged me at all recently. She’s unlike anyone I’ve ever known. She comes across as unbothered, but something about her set jaw and perfectly polished appearance tells me there’s more to her than meets the eye. She’s been quieter since our evening together, too.
She’s one tough cookie.
As satisfying as our evening was for me, something about it didn’t sit right with me. I tuck the cloth I’ve been using to dustthe shelves into my back pocket and slide down the ladder to set it on the amethyst table for now, replaying our evening together.
If she happened to fall asleep in her office, why did her pillow appear so battered? My brows knit together as I sort through the books lying on the table, alphabetizing them for now. It couldn’t have been the first time she’s fallen asleep there, and based on her comfort alone, she seemed well adjusted to sleeping in her office.
Look, I know some people are workaholics—Iris is a prime example. I get it, I really do, but sleeping in your office is a whole new level.
I glance down at the old, crusty book in my hand and shake my head, regaining focus on the task at hand. We’ve spent days organizing all the archives’ books and knick-knacks into separate piles. This morning, we started deep cleaning the shelves we’d emptied.
Riveting, I know.
She insisted we clean every nook and cranny as if Zeus himself would be paying the chamber a visit. After what was an even more grueling process than I anticipated, we’refinallyplacing books and items on the shelves.
I’m handling the upper half, while she takes on the lower. Despite taking on the lower half of the shelves, she often flies to reach some of the taller shelves, clearly double-checking my work. Her wings tread the air as she thoroughly dusts each book before placing it on the shelf. The way her midnight-blue wings glisten subtly in this dimly lit chamber takes my breath away.
I’ve seen all sorts of wings in the Middle Realm now, but I’d be lying if I said hers weren’t my favorite.
While gazing from afar, I get lost in her. Wearing a short, flutter-sleeved black dress that tightens around her waist andflares at the ends and combat boots today, she reminds me of a dark, ethereal fairy.
“Daydreaming again?” Her voice cuts through my thoughts.
