May [H.S]

32

Harry
•••

Et alors?

The walls of the cathedral tower to the heavens, the air tasted thick, worn like the dust between pages of a book. I felt suffocated, as if tucked into one of the tight, thousand papery crevices.

The suffocation came in waves, short finicky bursts of compression, claws dug in my chest when it did, deep, leaving marks. Breathing through the spurts only made it worse, more real. The heat beside me was the only cure, an alleviating distraction from the pressure.

Her eyes are glossed over, leaning a hazy shade of orange with the aggressively warm overhead lighting. The shifting tone of copper eyes the massive crucifix on the other side of the room, centered perfectly between the rows of seats. The architecture sings in wealth, and the draped curtains match the shade of reddish, purple on her lips. I watch her gaze intently, taking note of each piece of the surroundings she chooses to make a double take on.
Every so often, she gravitates back to the cross in the middle of the broad room, her eyes follow up the trimmed ceiling and back down to the show of glimmering candles. The faint flicker tickles the enlarged pupil that observes them.

Meg picks at her tights, each time I think she's about to put runs in them, she lets go to pinch the material in another spot, winding it slightly around the tip of her fingers, just enough. She'd thoughtlessly discarded her massive, showy coat of fluff, opting for a chunky and knitted gray cardigan that's been sitting in the back seat of my car for probably months. It smelled distinctly of leather and a specific cologne I left in California whilst hazardously packing my things. The fabric draped to the upper bit of her thighs, which even with the stockings are spotted in beauty marks and freckles, similarly to the highpoints of her face and chest.

The aftermath of our sex was this, soft and unsure of how to act around each other, me more so than Meg, who let her hands wander to me for comfort–mindless–with the unsettling vibrancy around us, I didn't blame her.

I wished I had the guts to tell her she could touch me however she wanted, use me to blow off steam whenever, help her buffer whatever emotions she wanted me to.

Meg places her feet on the cushions attached to the chair in front of us, I watch the indents as she blows out a breath of air, grappling my eye contact, "This is weird. I feel weird." She digs her feet further into the kneeler cushion, "It smells like old lady in here." She rambles on, and her tone is soaked in discomfort, everything about the setting around us keeps the hairs on her neck up.

She is trying, and failing, to distract herself.

Relaxing back isn't easy given the stiffness of the wood, but I try my darndest, taking in the calm between us before the rest of her relatives and Phils band of idiots share the air with us. "You did the hard part, we're almost done." I hum in a whisper.

"All you have to do now is sit here and tune out."

I can see Meg roll her eyes in my peripheral vision, my lungs burn at the small quirk, "This whole year has been 'the hard part,' Harry." It comes out as a joke, but I pick out the truth behind the brazen words. I squeeze her thigh, then her knee, as the words settle around us, my palm swallowing it in its entirety.

She sighs, and my hand immediately comes from its place of consoling her once I fully register how out of place it is, how it must feel for her. Out of fear of her flighty tendencies, I keep it on the wood behind her, grasping at the back of our seat. Meg doesn't notice, or doesn't show me she does, continuing to twirl her tights.

Meg opens her mouth as if to say something, purses her lips and turns her head to stare over at me. The lack of distance between us is daunting, and I'm reminded just how her scent lingers over here in our shared air. "He didn't even go to church, you know? Hated it, besides the obvious reasons. It was all for appearances, keeping up with the joneses. That was the most important part."