May [H.S]

26

Harry
•••

Ville d'émeraude.

A radiating warmth held reign over the damp layers of my skin, steady, predictable beams of heat– hand in hand with bisque misty streams of light– humming over the lids of my heavy eyes. Compacted in place. The sweet slumberous haze disciplining the limb state of my body began liquefying into the air, engaging my senses. A thawing ice cube left out on a hot summer day, pooling lucidity.

I'm back under the sultry influence of the California sun, or so it seems. Sweating in buckets with my arms splayed out behind my head, the top graciously off my vintage black Charger. A fever diffused off of the leather seats under my body, sizzling my skin with just the right amount of prickling pain. I knew I'd have a wicked sunburn to tend to once the sun went down and the alcohol wore off, whenever I managed to drive back to my oddly gaudy apartment. The fall-out floated alongside the seafoam in the dry air, a thought for me and the moon. I couldn't move just yet, the sun and all her glory needed to cast its disenchantment onto my feverish cheeks. I would never be important enough for her to miss me, not like other, far more deserving people.

I wonder where she is. If she's been in the sun recently like me, if we've shared the same light, at the same time, basking in it, connected in that way. Stop for a moment out of her day to breathe in the tickling, streamy rays of stardust, reverting to whatever she'd been doing before. Could she feel me just down the coast, picturing her every move, her routine, the skates on her feet, and snow in her silky hair? I'd sell my soul to see little translucent snowflakes in her hair again, to feel the flushed chilliness of the tip of her button nose.

I used to love the sun but now she just reminds me of you.

The light of sunny California flickers, presumably cloud cover trumping the harsh consistency of the heat. Less of that and more of arising from the thick foggy, flashback-bond area of my dreaming mind.

I hear myself grumble out a noise, still, unable to pry my eyes open or move over, wrapped in a simmering hot spell. The muscles of my neck ache, and as I edge closer to awakening, I can feel just how much my entire body burns like a nest of fire ants had taken a liking to my skin. My barely awake mind knew what it meant, that it stemmed from last night and the episode I'd experienced. In sort of stress brought those up and put my PTSD into action.

All of the memories from last night melted into the series of nightmares that occupied my mind, fresh and marginally vivid, vivid in a way that resembled expired film, grainy and indistinct to an unfocused, naked eye.

Adjusting to the blankness of my newly awakened mind, I recognize the sensation of cold fingers combing through the top of my hair, delicate and unwavering in pace. The hand glides through my scalp, twisting and twirling the shorter pieces that frame my face, a result of how my hair grew out without a proper haircut. The back of my head rests on a warm surface, and my upper half rises and falls alike the chest under it, respiring slowly. Her breathing pattern gives her up, I know she's awake.

I flutter my eyes open to the sight of my gray hoodie, held captive by my slow heaves. She's holding me. Meg's holding me, I'm in Meg's soft arms. One of them is wrapped around my upper chest and the other is propped up, entangled in my curls. Both of my arms are clinging to her body for dear life, my cheek squished against her chest. The realization kicks me in the gut, halting the pumping blood in my heart.

We must've fallen asleep like this; I don't remember crawling into her arms. I don't remember much of this morning at all, what ensued, I'd rather keep it that way. Unknowing with only the memories of her warm frame and caramel-smelling skin.