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    Butterscotch Sundae


                                           Butterscotch Sundae



    My hands drift over the smooth, pale skin of her back. It stretches over her ribs and vertebrate like a piece of plastic wrap, leaving barely anything to the imagination. I wonder if she knows her ribs are countable or if she realizes just how frail and vulnerable she looks while she?s sleeping. She sighs once and moves in response to the touch of my palm. I worry it?s too callused for her or perhaps I?m being too rough. I stop this and continue to stare at her.

    The back of her head is a mess of choppy locks the color of warm melted chocolate. It?s terribly hard to miss the shock of peroxide-white-blonde that streaks down a particularly unruly tuft of hair and I grin. She?s an artist; Van Gogh, Pollock, Chagall. She is all of them rolled into one and better, in my humble opinion. From my view and perspective she looks small, hollow, like her bones are made of blown glass and constructed together in a way that only she can maneuver. I?m torn on whether or not to touch her.

     I glance at my own hands, smaller, broader, and worked; the tips of my fingers are cardboard or sandpaper, dry and rough. Subconsciously I ball my hands into fists, hoping to hide them but then realizing that no one can see me. I?m foolish, but oh so glad to be. I feel my confidant rouse from the position on her side. One long, gangly arm rises in the air and extends at the elbow. Her fingers uncurl and I wonder if she?s trying to touch the ceiling. Honestly, I wouldn?t put it past her. She likes ambition, or so she told me. I can?t help but wonder what goes on in her mind. How she thinks and reasons and why she does the things she does. When she gets nervous, she swallows and when she?s happy her smile brightens up a room. I relish her, I cherish her. Her hand returns to the spot on the pillow, where it was previously settled, and then swiftly falls down to the sheet rounding her angular hips. She brings the thin cotton up to rest beneath her underarm and I wonder if she?s cold, or if she?s even awake, I still can?t see her face. I bite my lower lip and grin, contemplating turning her over and finding out for myself. We had a long night though, I won?t wake her. I wonder if she remembers she told me she missed the way I smelled, or remembers my eyes tearing in fear. I poured my heart and soul into this girl, this wingless bird with hollow bones, and she bruised me a little. She pushed me into a dark place in her heart and shut the door, making sure no light got in. She did a fantastic job, I almost believed her.

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    Comments

    1. Gorgeous! I love the way you linger on physical details in a way that gives them their due, painting the picture, showing and not telling, but without cliche. I especially like your depiction of Shane and her fragility, that was lovely. More! :D

    2. I must agree wholeheartedly with NOVEMBER. I planned on reading all night till work because I couldn’t sleep but you’ve ruined that for me. BEcause I always have to stop on a good note so I will have to find something else to do for 5 hours…I’m not joking. You’ve left me speechless and afraid to pick my pen back up and start writing which i had planned for this week. With one line you’ve shattered my writting aspirations. …”My sweet catastrophe” I could never top that…hat off to you man and keep them coming I’m hooked.

    3. MAGNIFICENT.This is a fic that I enjoyed from start to finish. I love it that you chose Carmen to be the narrator of the story. Does it mean the fic is over?:( PLEASE RECONSIDER:)I’ll buy you flowers:)

    4. I’m smiling and I can’t stop! Beautifully written, the way you got Carmen’s thoughts down just nothin short of awesome. Please post another fic soon!

    5. Its BeaUtifuLL !! i love it!! haih, can almost picture the whole scene from ur descriptions. totally different writing style from the other writers i have read in here, before this.

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