7
Arsen
I watch Fiore sleep against my chest, the quiet rise and fall of her chest hypnotic to watch. Her brow is pulled down, the expression on her face one of thought. What could she be she dreaming about?
The answer comes to me easily: she is dreaming of the future. Whatever the future means to her, I suppose.
That term is amorphous. The future. I can’t nail it down. It’s ever-shifting, ever changing.
I think part of the reason that Fiore bringing it up made me so angry, is that I have been thinking of the future myself. And for the first time since I can remember, my vague view of the future has changed.
Instead of just picturing myself, my shoulders set against the unknown perils that the future might bring, I see that there are two figures. Me and her.
Where on earth did that
