In the flesh, truth
Love doesn’t fade. Love is written into the flesh. To the bone.
But is that deep enough?
Longing eats him like a cancer. A longing that sometimes wears her face. He’s dreamt of her since childhood. Like Heathcliff or Gatsby or that schmuck from Great Expectations. He’d left her though and when he saw her, 17 and faintly pressing the edge of adulthood, he’d seen her from a distance. He clutched his distance like a coat against bitter wind, fearing her. Fearing the death of his dream. How could she, all flesh and blood and fiery human will, be the boyhood fantasy he’d treasured for years? The ghost of his fantasy beckoned from within her. She had the same deep little girl eyes. The same slender, nail tipped, hands. The same sharp boots and heartbreaker viciousness that had busted the shins and hearts of the schoolyard boys.
The second time he’d seen her, when she was a woman of 22, he couldn’t stay away. She’d caught him completely by surprise, though he was pretty sure the feeling was mutual. He sat in a dive bar waiting for his roommate, Sam, to show up. His roommate was bringing a friend of his, a one-time f–k buddy who’d moved to New York. She’d walked in on Sam’s arm, faintly familiar and undeniably hot. Her red hair fell past her shoulders, her darkly painted lips shined against her pale skin. She wore a summer dress and wholly impractical shoes, their high heels made of clear plastic so she seemed to always hover on tiptoe.
(New adult erotic romance. UST)