Since our talk, we hadn't hung out. Barely talked.

He asked if he could come over, play one of my vintage gaming systems. The plan was for Thursday.

"What are you up to tonight?" His voice soft and coarse came through my phone.

He came over tonight instead (as well?). He was unhappy. Quieter than usual (if that's possible). He had a really good haircut, though, and I told him so.

Chinese food, then tea and Nintendo at my place.

"Hmpff," he said, and flopped once on the couch, twice, then to the side, so his head was on my shoulder.

His smell, sawdust and sweat and canvas and salt, was intoxicating. Without thinking I smoothed his hair back from his forehead, once, twice, three times, fingernails in the scalp, then pressed my cheek against the rough warmth of his hair.

NO.

I got up and made myself a pot of tea, then sat on the floor when I returned.

Still he played, his body an easy warmth next to mine.

Boys will be the death of me.

This fire I have inside of me will eat me from the inside.

When I am old, I will be nothing but a charred black heart, dry and withered and tired from years of burning so brightly.

I need to shower. Fuckit.

.

Rosie.

Before&After