Anne exhaled then inhaled into her cup of tea. The swirling, sweet scent of honey and herbal warmth filled her lungs.
She was. In love.
She imagined what he would look like crossing the street before her. How he might turn a door handle. Or the page of a book. How he would squint and half-smirk into the New York sky.
She could barely imagine what it would be like for him to touch her face. Or for her to touch his. The prospect was too great and full of too much ecstatic euphoria. The interweaving of their fingers alone would achieve unfathomable erotic satisfaction.
She longed to cradle him with his ear against her heart. And listen to all his secrets. Her little fingers would travel a path behind his ear and through the forest of his hair as he spoke. And memorize she would the formations of his lips and the things he told her.
She was. In love.
But the night air grew colder by the minute, snuffing out the warmth of her tea. And his arms were masked by a gaping void of distance, time, and starless night skies.
Still, he was there. As if he had always been there. Sinking and nestling a seed into her heart that had grown around her in an enveloping embrace. She had known him since the beginning of her beginning.
Each fiber that comprised him was of gossamer thread; so gently would she turn the threads over, examine them, until she had voyaged her way across the dew-dropped web of his shimmering soul.
She was. In love.
