A lonely dog barks outside of her house.
It is a quarter until 10, we lay on the floor of Laura's bedroom. Her socks don't match--I smile at that.
It takes me a moment to notice her fingers, resting between her legs, separated by underwear and nothing more. Her hand shifts every so often, and she throws me a glance. I pretend not to notice. I stare at the cheap plastic stars glued to her ceiling, I stare at the movie poster on the wall, the curtains, the ceiling fan.
I close my eyes, and I feel her hovering over my body. Her fingertips graze my skin. The hair on my neck stands.
Her tongue on my collarbones. My stomach turns.
In a land far away, there was once a Princess. She was very fair, beautiful in every sense of the word. Fit to be a ruler--though, that didn't matter much. She was in need of a Prince. A handsome Prince, he who would take her hand and guide her to the throne, kiss her on the cheek with his fingers around her throat, give her roses and bandages for the thorn-pricks.
A beautiful man, a Prince Charming, she knew this. The date was set for Autumn, as the leaves change to fire. The dress was eggshell white. The King and Queen smiled more.
So as the leaves withered and the air chilled, the Princess bowed her head in a church and the Prince took her hand. The King and Queen shared a smile--a smile that meant more, a smile only they knew.
A war was avoided, as the Princess bandaged her fingers.
Laura takes me in her arms with a content sigh. On the bed now, the moonlight shines through the window. It lights her face--it is not her color.
She mutters about my eye contact as she drifts to sleep.
She smiles.
Anything is yours, Laura, my beloved
