Arms splayed wide, across the park and right passed it all. She’s lying, almost dozing, till she moves herself up onto him, delicate china head balanced gracefully in the deep crevasse of his shoulder blade. Arms ain’t splayed no more, tight around her instead, eyes fixed tight on the trees printed across the sky, grand painting splashed across them, twigs and arms and branches and every thing. Twisted knots together.
She runs her hands across the minute blades, each with thousands of glassy beads dancing up from them all – it’s early still. She runs her hands back up him and she looks right at him and he looks back, eyes bright, and she tells him she meant every word she said, that she loves him something fierce. He says he knows, reckons it’ll be like it is forever, and he tells her – in soothing tremolo – he ain’t felt nothing like it before. She can’t quite know yet what it is, but she knows it’s something. They knot fingers, like liquid clasps, and she tells him she reckons she’s always been alone. Always alone, they were all always there, but she felt alone – that was until now, until him: pre and post.
They’ve no idea how long they’ve been there for, not that it mattered in any way, no time for time at a time like this. He tells her about a book he read a hell of a long time ago, the title evades him, it had made him feel not alone. What was it that it said. “Nothing hurt and everything was beautiful”, something like that. She says that that’s pretty, sounds like a pretty book she says. It was, mostly. She says she doesn’t feel too bad, last night considered, she feels composed and he agrees, but they’ll still need a couple of those things he’s got on script, he reckons. She reckons that too she says.
Up on a hand, she floats down his torso – through strands of hair he sees the sky and the sun, and it goes on forever – she rests her head on his stomach, hand gently grazing the skin of it – skin on skin, atoms on atoms, dragging gently apart – and he realises only now how cold she really is. As she does all of this, all of it, he smiles to himself and – as though perfectly predicted – he feels her own smile against his skin, warm with reassurance.
The morning piles itself on, heavy light streaming across unburdened eyes until they’re forced to abandon what was so comfortable and shift weight. He feels the morning dew soak through cheap denim and cotton; she feels morning dew soak through aged cotton and denim. She sits upright and cocks her ear, asking if he can hear it too: laughter, children in the distance. He says he can, she asks if it’s the same, she asks if they can hear it, and he sits upright and wraps his arms around her once more.
They sit in silence, listening intently to the distant laughter, and it bubbles and rises, and the wind rushes by for only a second, and something rustles the trees surrounding them, and the laughter rises slowly once more before it fades and settles. And the sky was pink.