Page 33 of These Tears

But I’m burning. I am… absolutely… thoroughly sweltering.

‘The truth, Crane,’ I urge, not letting him divert us again.

The amusement bleeds out. Memories begin their wretched ascent to his eyes.

Then he shuts down entirely and stands up.

‘Not yet,’ he murmurs and glances towards the guard. ‘Can we have five minutes?’ he calls.

The guard’s eyes fall to me. I nod.

I know the camera’s trained on us, so he won’t do anything.

But it isn’t the camera that makes me feel safe – it’s what we have that makes me certain Elias Crane won’t hurt me.

The guard retreats a little further into the yard to give us enough space that our words just might remain only between the two of us.

Elias’ eyes are fixed on his toes, tracing the elusive past until nature is the only witness to our words.

‘Is a man only the sum of where he comes from,’ he muses, ‘or what he chooses once he knows what it has made of him?’

Of course he gives me a question instead of an answer. It’s broad enough to hide inside, philosophical enough that he never has to name what has cut open the wound.

It is his language.

‘The latter,’ I respond, playing along. ‘And what made him that way?’

He lifts his crystalline eyes to mine. Several breaths pass before he decides on his answer.

‘The world.’

‘People, you mean,’ I say quietly. ‘Like you said – people can’t make one cheat, lie… commit murder.’

He looks beyond me, to the sky, as though the chirp of the birds carries the secrets he doesn’t want me to grasp.

I wait. Arm myself with patience I don’t have.

‘I have a temper,’ he declares finally. ‘My old man had a temper.’

Pieces of him begin to give way, and I can’t compel myself to look away.

My heart is thudding wildly, partly from the musky scent of him carried on the breeze, partly from the restless anticipation of finally knowing why he’s really here.

‘You light two fires, and there’s no doubt the house will burn down.’ He looks at the cake. A long breath leaves him, like pain travelling on memory. ‘More vanilla-sweat, please?’

My hand gives a shudder as I reach for another scoop, and he lowers his head to take it from my fingers.

I feed it to him. Slow.

And this time, neither of us startles at the contact.

He laps it off, buying time to decide what other truths he is ready to let loose.

Each brush of his tongue has something decadent shooting straight between my thighs.

As he makes that last swallow, his eyes fall to his feet again and stay there in quiet recollection.

The ice that settles over him pulls my spine straighter. I’m suddenly wondering whether I’ve imagined it all.