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Author's Chapter Notes:

Quote at the beginning is from Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer. Read it! (It's beautiful.)

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

"...sometimes my hand starts to burn and I am convinced we are writing the same word at the same moment..."

 

He leaves on a Friday, the tingle of her fingertips still dancing on his palms. He walks into a new office, fresh with memories of her kiss - he has to lick his lips to remind himself she's not still there. He reaches out and finds empty air where there was once blue satin.

She sits on a Monday and stares at an empty desk. Even days later, there are two spots low on her back, warm and flushed. His hands rested there, pressed for the briefest moment. Her fingers, slightly curved and separated, ache to belong buried in the softness of his hair.

He's been gone a month and he can't remember the exact color of her eyes, the way her hair falls against the side of her face. In a panic, that evening he writes every detail, every look, every highlight. He fills up five pages and puts them away: every fleck of color within the iris, every strand, all accounted for. He sleeps.

She's walking to her car when the wind blows away his smell. Was it light? Was it strong? Did it remind her of burning leaves in the fall, or a walk by a lake? She sits in her dimly lit apartment and writes four pages, letting her memories of his scent flow until she is empty.

He glances at the desk behind him, the dark hair and dazzling smile, and forgets her laugh. What he used to live for is now killing him slowly. He decides to let it slip away, but three sleepless nights later he is staring at the newly filled pages, frustrated, yearning.

She tries something new, and goes home alone. His voice, the way his hands enhance everything he says, are just out of her reach. She writes a page for each graceful finger, a page for each word intended for her and her alone, a page for each groan, laugh, and whisper.

He hears her voice, rising with comfort and familiarity, peppered with the miracle of her laugh. He closes his eyes on the way home, but can no longer conjure up her face. He reaches deep down and records every inch of it, nose lips chin cheeks eyes, until all he can see is her.

She listens to his laugh on the other end, and she falls: his voice catches her, holds her close. She tries to imagine his smile, but it fades away. She documents every different version: the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, how his nose seems somehow bigger, all his features harmonized, everything perfectly imperfect.

He packs up his new life and begins to write things he never knew: the soft sigh of her sleep, the softness of her skin, the feel of her pulse rhythmically pounding "I love you" as they become one.

The days are filled with changes and she's now transcribing her dreams. She can trace the shadow of his eyelashes on his cheek, press her hand to his chest and feel the low hum of his voice vibrating through her, hold his gaze and speak a thousand words with her eyes as he takes her.

The night before, he doesn't sleep. He searches through the pages, trying to stop her words "I can't" echoing through his head. Then he replaces it with a breathy "Hey", a whispered "Me too", and is able to breathe again. He turns over his tingling hands, pushes his hair back. The bedside clock is a countdown to the unknown.

The night before, she doesn't sleep. She wants to go back in time, wipe the tear off his cheek; it would burn her fingertips. She reaches for her finger, to twist the reminder, nervous like that night. Her finger is empty and smooth. She is free. She is his.

It is morning. The light in the office is too bright, the background too loud. Everything is the same; everything is different.

He looks at her, and she smiles. Every word he's written is shattered.

She meets his eyes, burning, perfect. Her pages turn to ashes.

A new book has begun.



Bennie is the author of 28 other stories.
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