and he was saying something she couldn't make out, he was saying it softly, reasonably,
and, somehow, they ended up brow to brow, nose to nose,
and she could feel the heat of his breath on her lips again. And when, suddenly, he leaned in, she did too.
In the coming days and weeks, Laila would scramble frantically to commit it all to memory, what happened next.
Like an art lover running out of a burning museum,
she would grab whatever she could, a look, a whisper, a moan, to salvage from perishing, to preserve.
But time is the most unforgiving of fires, and she couldn't, in the end, save it all.
Still, she had these: that first, tremendous pang of pain down below.
The slant of sunlight on the rug. Her heel grazing the cold hardness of his leg, lying beside them, hastily unstrapped.
Her hands cupping his elbows. The upside-down, mandolin-shaped birthmark beneath his collarbone, glowing red.
His face hovering over hers. His black curls dangling, tickling her lips, her chin.
The terror that they would be discovered. The disbelief at their own boldness, their courage.
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