“You’re the echoes of my everything. You’re the emptiness the whole world sings at night. You’re the laziness of afternoon. You’re the why I burst and why I bloom. You’re the leaky sink of sentiment. You’re the failed attempts I never could forget. You’re all the metaphors I can’t create, to comprehend this curse that I call love.”—
“When I see you the World stops. It stops and all that exists for me is you and my eyes staring at you. There’s nothing else. No noise, no other people, no thoughts or worries, no yesterday, no tomorrow. The World just stops and it is a beautiful place and there is only you. Just you, and my eyes staring at you. I stared. When you’re gone, the World starts again, and I don’t like it as much. I can live in it, but I don’t like it. I just walk around in it and wait to see you again and wait for it to stop again. I love it when it stops. It’s the best fucking thing I’ve ever known or ever felt, the best thing, and that, beautiful Girl, is why I stare at you.”— James Frey
In a testament to the power of fatigue, I managed to fall asleep quickly, convinced that the shrieking of dying monsters and her delighted squeals upon killing them were nothing more than a pleasant soundtrack by which to dream. I woke up half an hour later, when she sat down on my bed, her butt against my hip. Her underwear, her jeans, the comfortor, my courduroys, and my boxers between us, I thought. Five layers, and yet I felt it, the nervous warmth of touching — a pale reflection of the fireworks of one mouth on another, but a reflection nontheless. And in the almostness of the moment, I cared at least enough. I wasn’t sure whether I liked her, and I doubted whether I could trust her, but I cared at least enough to try to find out. Her on my bed, wide eyes staring down at me. The enduring mystery of her sly, almost smirking smile. Five layers between us.