And there is a fascination that she wishes she could extinguish: the accidental contemplation of his hands, the quick raw yearning that singes her skin when his eyes are on her. She takes to watching his mouth, an idle new envy of the words that form on his tongue. He did kiss her once, and she dimly recalls the dread, the queer chastity of it. She nearly misses the girl she was then, the one who dutifully recoiled because she knew she had no other choice. The blacks and whites have since begun to bleed.
Now, she deftly weaves her way between deception and this thing she will not name – true liking? flirtation? desire? – and half-hopes all the while that she might slip.
He would catch her, she knows.