breaking the silence.
Andrew goes rigid,
eyes falling shut for a beat.
On the other side of the terrace,
in a red dress with brown waves,
a woman leans over the railing,
puffing on a cigarette.
Andrew’s struggling, hesitating,
fighting himself,
losing.
“You came all this way,” I say, “Only to back off when someone’s watching?”
His lips part, wanting to argue,
or kiss me,
or both.
But only an exhale escapes.
So I lean in?—
“You shy now?” I ask in a whisper.
His eyes catch fire, and he moves in,
all breath and hunger.
But just before his mouth crashes into mine?—
I stop him, my hand cold against his chest.
“No.”
Heat is coming off him,
heart pounding against my palm.
His nostrils flare,
fingers curling into the stone wall,
desperate for me to either give in or end him.
It’s been over two weeks since my mouth touched his. And I’d burn everything down just to kiss him again, every cell in my body crying for it. But I’ll never admit it.
He wets his lip,
tasting every word before he spits them out?—
