She’ll want to talk about chain saws and seasoned maple, trampling through the woods, damp, earthy places, and dirty leather boots.
Or maybe she’ll talk about motion sickness; leg-dangling screams and shrieks, run-you-off-the-rails pangs of terror.
She’ll shine the light in your face, unfurl your defenses, show you to you. Stealthy, like toe-contorting blisters (but the shoes were too cute).
“Sweetly, darkly, darling, read her poetry by the fire, make it smeared, smudged, and smokey like the shadow on her eyes.”
Avery’s tongue zips along the back of her bottom teeth. “You know, the sweat of prolonged fear smells different. Probably more than sweat involved, maybe an infection.”
You can talk about that.
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