The Sum of Her
I do not own Pretty Little Liars.
Sometimes, when I stare at her long enough the organism is all that I can see. Her name becomes random letters strung together. Her face is not the face of my best friend. It is not a socially acceptable thing to stare that intently at another human being. It is hard to brush it off as it requires so much focus. You can't smooth your actions over with a simple 'Sorry. I was lost in thought'. Not the third, or fourth, or fifth time it happens anyway.
I didn't notice the growing curiosity, or the gnawing attraction that tangled in my stomach. Living in a constant state of unease, and impending terror make it very difficult to be self aware. You're so busy running, and puzzle piecing your life together there isn't much time for self reflection.
But there are moments.
Usually when everyone is asleep.
Usually at my house, in my room, because everyone knows my family won't mind. Won't know. Isn't there.
It's a little easier to arrange after her shoulder injury. Normally Aria and Hanna would argue which of the two go to share my bed while the others camped out on the floor. Not Em. She was never one for petty disagreements. Ever the peace keeper. By the time the shrieking match escalated to who had the more tragic existence. Hanna and her Hobo. Aria and her very sweet pedofhile. More recently Hanna and her possibly murderous mother, or Aria and her lack of love life and mother. Emily had already made a bed for herself in the floor beside me. Smiling up with a shaking chest as she attempted to hold back her laughter.
But Aria couldn't argue Team Sparia after Emily injured herself saving her life. Injured herself, jeopardized her future, and her plans. All in a moment. And Hanna is Hanna, but not even she could force Emily on the floor. Just a huff, a jab about Emily's feebleness as she collapsed on the floor at the foot of the bed on the sleeping pallet that Aria constructed of my old Beauty and the Beast bedding.
I wish they would argue.
I wish she wasn't this close.
I wish it, but I'm not strong enough to turn away. To roll over and go to sleep. This is the only time I ever get the opportunity to examine her, and not worry about giving myself away.
She isn't Emily anymore.
She's just a woman. Dark soft features. Graceful even in sleep. Never stirring, tossing, or kicking. She is the picture of peace. She reminds me a photo we studied in Art History. Manuel Alvarez Bravo - Portrait of the Eternal. A woman in half light brushing her hair. But it is only hair I remind myself. And she is only skin and bone. And the things I think that are beautiful about her are merely physical attributes expertly executed. She is a reason to pray. A reason to believe in some higher power. I have to laugh at myself. My thoughts are rarely this superfluous.
The urge to touch her is overwhelming. I can feel my body flush. Arteries and capillaries, rushing blood, making ready. My pupils dilate. My mouth goes dry. My palms sweat, and guilt washes over me. But I don't move. I just stare, and think about the pieces of her. The composition of her. I think about the faint blond hairs on her forearm, and the way they stand up and reach for me has I let my fingers run back and forth just out of their reach. Epidermis. Keratin. Sensory receptors dancing with me.
I stare at her soft full lips. Labium superius oris, and Labium inferius oris respectively. The area around the lips is called the Vermillion Border. I run my fingers in front of her mouth, and it switches into a smile, before relaxing back in full repose. The skin of her lips is made of the same mettle as the rest of her. The color is darker and richer because the blood vessels there are only covered in three to five layers of Epidermis. When you think about it that way, the mouth is almost a picture of her from the inside out.
It makes me blush in the dark, because it feels so much like an invitation. She grimaces then, and readjusts her shoulder.
I lean up on my pillow, and push my hair back. My palm hovers over her shoulder. I think about the symphony that occurs every time she's in the water. And the way her muscles dance to pull her across the pool. The supraspinatus muscle abducts the arm. The infraspinatus externally rotates the arm - teres minor too. While the subscapularis internally rotates the humerus. One note out of key somewhere inside of her. Throwing off the pitch. But it's not as easy as tuning a piano I remind myself. And I am no surgeon. I lay back down and rub my face vigorously to stifle the threatening tears.
Her mouth falls open.
I want so desperately to kiss her. To know what she tastes like. Would the liquorice she ate before bed still linger at the back of her tongue? Would it mingle with the iron of her? Hydrogen, zinc, copper, calcium, phosphorus, potassium. I'm listing elements in my head when she wakes up. But I am lost in her, and I don't see her watching me. Puzzlement tugs at the corners of her mouth and her tongue sneaks out to wet her lips.
We lock eyes, and I'm too far inside my own mind worry about any discomfort she might feel, or why this is inappropriate. She blinks rapidly to wake herself, but she does not stir. She does not look away. The rich brown of her iris pulls back, and the black of her pupils is nearly all I can see. Her breathing picks up. I feel her leg shift closer to mine until they rest tibia to tibia. She reaches out, an action made easier by the half sleep that is still swirling around in her brain. Her fingertips run just once along my lower lip.
"Spence?" my name is a question.
"Labium inferius oris"
She tilts her head and furrows her brow.
"What?"
"Nothing." I roll onto my left side and stare at the door. She stays raised up on her elbow for an eternity.
Waiting, wondering before I feel her body lower, and relax. The thoughts, the questions leaving her, as sleep overtakes her again. And her body wraps itself around the back of me. In the morning all of this will be nothing more than a dream.