The boy in black didn't see her coming. She stood for a moment in the doorway to the street, hesitant, wary. She felt as if a step forward would change things forever. The acrid, sensual smell of fear--the kind of fear one feels in the presence of death--filled her nostrils. She lifted one foot and inched it back.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” a voice warned her. She jumped, blinked hard. Emblazoned on the back of her eyelids was her past's head mingling amidst the blotchy remains of open-eye light. She noticed a sore had reappeared below his lower lip.
“Why don't you go back inside,” she hissed, and as she did so, the boy looked up. And so did she.
A blue calm that clearly came from his eyes enveloped her, fading (though not entirely) her past's face. She felt her legs advance slowly, then she ran, then she leapt into the boy's chest, who caught her gently and firmly and crushed all of the noise, all of the terrible noise from the street, from her head, from her past, into liquid quiet.
“I've missed you,” he said. His stare bore through her in a way that undid and redid her at the same time. Blue flame crept through her chest that set many of the dead things inside of her on sweet, searing fire.
“I've missed you, too,” she breathed back, leaning into him. The boy pointed toward the bike.
“Shall we go?” Tenderly, he strapped on her helmet. She felt like a child. She could have done it herself, but she let him. She wanted it.
And on the back of the bike that roared through her bones a devilish smile forced her lips apart. She grabbed his chest with one hand that was instantly electrified by sheer contact, and the moment they drove off she gave one last, hard blink and her past's face was shattered into nothingness.
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