He watched her curl up in the covers and grin at him over the top and wondered what this would do to them. It didn't seem so strange that two friends could share a bed, maybe cuddle. But he knew it was. He worried he'd wake up in the morning to find her gone, or worse, she'd lock herself up in her own silence again until one day the very hollowness that always seemed to eat her from the inside out would cause her to simply disappear.
He dropped to the bed and reached for her hair with trembling fingers. It brushed like frizzy velvet against his hands and he had to resist tugging on it to make sure she was still anchored firmly to the earth. She seemed real enough and gave his own matted hair a tug.
"We could pretend we're camping," he offered, tossing the blankets over their heads like a tent. The light took on a filtered glow and Monica drifted back into sight as his eyes focused.
"I like you, Martin," she blurted out. She ducked her head and covered her mouth as she said it. Turning on her side she ran her hands over the bottom of the cover, draped across them like a shawl both smothering and protecting them at the same time.
He draped his arm across her waist and willed himself to be like the blanket and just drift there natural and nonthreatening.
"I like you a lot," he told her. "But I don't want things to be weird. I don't want you to start hating me and think that I'm like every other guy out there."
"I hate men," she confirmed without looking at him. "But I thought of something this morning."
"What's that?" He held his breath. It was the most she'd talked to him in longer than he could remember.
She wound her fingers through his and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Instantly he felt the urge to hold her tightly forever and protect her like a strong suit of armor. The thought made him grin ruefully. A strong suit of armor. It was the worst metaphor for him ever. He thought maybe a menacing poodle was about the best he could do in comparisons of his own fierceness. A teacup poodle, at that.
He dropped to the bed and reached for her hair with trembling fingers. It brushed like frizzy velvet against his hands and he had to resist tugging on it to make sure she was still anchored firmly to the earth. She seemed real enough and gave his own matted hair a tug.
"We could pretend we're camping," he offered, tossing the blankets over their heads like a tent. The light took on a filtered glow and Monica drifted back into sight as his eyes focused.
"I like you, Martin," she blurted out. She ducked her head and covered her mouth as she said it. Turning on her side she ran her hands over the bottom of the cover, draped across them like a shawl both smothering and protecting them at the same time.
He draped his arm across her waist and willed himself to be like the blanket and just drift there natural and nonthreatening.
"I like you a lot," he told her. "But I don't want things to be weird. I don't want you to start hating me and think that I'm like every other guy out there."
"I hate men," she confirmed without looking at him. "But I thought of something this morning."
"What's that?" He held his breath. It was the most she'd talked to him in longer than he could remember.
She wound her fingers through his and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Instantly he felt the urge to hold her tightly forever and protect her like a strong suit of armor. The thought made him grin ruefully. A strong suit of armor. It was the worst metaphor for him ever. He thought maybe a menacing poodle was about the best he could do in comparisons of his own fierceness. A teacup poodle, at that.
