Save My Soul

Moonlight [12]

12.

In the dim warmth of the den, I sit close beside Jamie as the previews for the movie play across the screen. Lillian is nestled into the love-seat with Katie and Lily curled up and Jamie and I sit on the floor, leaning against the plush sofa. It's dark outside, but a lamp shines from the side-table next to Lillian, and a string of white Christmas lights hangs over the window because Lillian says that Christmas lights should be enjoyed year-round. Glancing at them, twinkling softly against the thick, cream-colored curtains, I have to agree.

The movie is several years old, Lillian told me, and it's based off a book called Tuck something. I try to pay attention as the opening scene starts but Jamie's shoulder is so close to mine that every time one of us breathes, our shoulders shift so that they're almost pressed together - yet just as the fabric of his sleeve brushes against the fabric of mine, one of us exhales and the chance is lost, but only for a few seconds. I start to listen closely to his breath, to time mine with his. I don't know if he notices, but within a few minutes, it's all I can think of. I look at him once, to see him staring at the television, his lashes brushing his eyebrows, his lips red and moist. He's taken a shower so his hair is damp and smells sweetly of soap and very faintly, of crushed pine cones. He's wearing a plain white tee shirt and dark sweatpants. Without meaning to, I lean closer, trying to pick out where the scent of pine is coming from. His eye flickers to mine and I stop, but something in the glint of them, in the shadow cast by the lamp and the turn of his face, seizes me and then I cannot look away.

I watch, mesmerized, the movement of his chest as he breathes and the flicker of his eyelashes when he blinks and the rise and fall of the color in his cheeks. The longer I stare, the faster my heart beats, so that soon, it's beating is like that of a bird, light and fluttery-like. My cheeks burn steadily. I notice how his hand, resting on the carpet in between us, is only inches from mine. I can't help staring at it, at its every line and curve, the short, clean nails, the smooth knuckles. He has beautiful hands, I think, and then I wonder how strange it is that I would think that. I've never noticed another boy's hands before; I couldn't even summon a picture of Adam's. His skin is the color of ivory, with the palest hint of olive peeking through from beneath. I remember the first time I saw him, how I wanted to paint him, and I feel a thrill run the length of me. I lift my eyes to study his face with a renewed vigor, with the eyes of a painter, and again, his eyes flicker to mine.

He looks away again, his glance furtive, as if he didn't mean to take it; amazed, I listen to his quick, unnatural breathing and watch the rising flush in his cheeks. His eyelashes flutter, covering his eyes, and then lifting again.

I'll use my thinnest brush, with strokes as light as a butterfly's wing, I think, staring at them. My inkiest black with an undertone of silver to shine through - to capture the reflection of light against them.

I feel something brush against my fingertips, which are clenched at my side on the carpet. My hand loosens automatically. I look down and see that he has moved his hand so that it's right next to mine. I need only move my fingers slightly to the side, and I would be touching him.

Hardly daring to breathe, I lift my eyes and fix them unseeingly on the television screen. I shift my fingers, brushing against his first finger. He moves slightly, and his hand slides over mine. Neither of us looks at the other. Slowly, I turn my hand over and his fingers slip through my fingers and we both draw in our breath at the same time, as if in relief.

It feels as if my body is humming and my vision swims, the picture of the warmly lit den and the bright television screen a blur. My heart still pounds but now it's calmer, satiated by the warmth of his skin touching mine, the feel of his fingers holding mine.