Page 87 of Wayfarers

“Sounds good.”

“It’s okay,” he says, “to have things you don’t want to talk about.”

I try not to give him some side-eye. “What I’m hearing you say is, I’m relieved you also have things you don’t want to talk about.”

“I mean.” He considers. “You don’t owe anybody anything, Sylvie. Not one single part of yourself. Not one secret you don’t want to share.”

“Can you do that, though? Can you break off that one part of you, the part you don’t want to look at, and just let it float away like—like space junk? Can you keep it from coloring every other part of your life?”

“I want to tell you yes.”

“Then tell me yes. Tell me it’s true.”

“Yes,” he says, low. “Yes,” and I lean into him a little, his arm all brushed up against mine. He’s sweating. Above us a fluorescent light buzzes.

I don’t want to look at him. I don’t. But I do, and he’s looking at me. “What?”

“You have—” That smile again. “You have some dryer lint in your hair.”

“Where?”

“Higher. No, higher.”

“Am I—”

“Let me,” he says, and he reaches out, and then his hands are in my hair, my lips are millimeters from his.

Knox The True Shape of My Desire

Now I’m again close enough

to Sylvie’s face to feel her breath’s invisible feather

on my lips and the flower

of her damp skin’s heat like it’s offering

up the sunshine it drank in

during the hours we whiled away

talking in lazy circles

on the beach. And also I’m taking

my sweet, sweet time plucking

the lint from her hair. My fingers

journeying through it like foraging

in a forest’s understory, seeking

some precious and delicate fruit.

The machine of my heart thunders

like the washers and dryers that surround us,