She tugs on the back of my sweater and a second later, her fingers are light as feathers on my back and sides

She tugs on the back of my sweater and a second later, her fingers are light as feathers on my back and sides. I shift from side to side but she doesn't relent. A bit of the stuff bubbling in the pot in front of me splatters out onto my hand. "Fuck!" I bring my hand to my mouth, sucking on the spot. I turn to glare at her and she grabs my wrist, pulls my hand away from my mouth, and examines my skin carefully.

"It's just a small burn. No need to get put off."

I'm about to open my mouth and let loose with a stinging retort when she presses her lips to the back of my hand, her hair a brilliant pink, and next thing I know, I have her pushed back against the counter, my mouth on hers, and our hands are roaming under clothing. She shivers when I brush my fingers along her ribcage, her body quaking beautifully in my arms, and for a moment, I am simply amazed that I am able to produce such a reaction in someone like her.

Amid the gasping raspy inhalations and the quiet moans punctuating the air, I hear the stuff in the pot bubbling away madly, now a violent boil. I lift my head; it hurts to pull my lips away from hers. She grabs my face in her hands and pulls me back, her tongue moving against mine and over my teeth.

"Dora. The food. Is going to burn." I wrap an arm around her waist and pull her with me to the stove, careful to keep her from getting burned. But of course she trips over those sodding big boots of hers and my feet get tangled with hers and we fall to the floor with a terrible thud.

She laughs. My elbow is radiating pain through my entire body and my head feels like it has done battle with a giant hammer but she is stretched out on me, laughing so hard that she buries her face in my chest. I want to freeze this moment so I can have it later on when I know things won't be so easy and light. A dark and terrifying danger hangs over us, hangs over everyone we know, and it is only a matter of time before laughter is scarce.

I trail my fingers through her hair slowly and as a vicious thought rockets through my mind, she lifts her head and the laughter catches in her throat. Her eyes darken with intensity as I curl the tips of her hair around my fingers and then press my palm to her head, forcing her closer. Her kisses are no longer playful, no longer punctuated by giggles and whispers. She tugs at my clothes with desperate fingers; I feel her hysteria screaming just below the surface. We all feel it, this rising darkness, and we all succumb to it a little more each day.

She stumbles to her feet and I follow, feeling rather large and clumsy as I slam my hip into the corner of the table. I push her up against it, lean into her, and reach for the hem of her top. She lifts her arms without breaking contact with my mouth and the split second that we must stop kissing so I can pull her shirt over her head feels like a fucking eternity.

I don't know when I started crying, or why I started, but as the heels of her very big black boots dig into the backs of my thighs, I realize that her cheeks are damp with her own tears. Dinner burns, the acrid smell fills the air, but neither of us care because the outside world cannot exist. Not now, not with this urgency and this darkness and my needing her so badly that my bones ache. She is warm and soft against my scarred body and as I lay her out on the table, I feel whole and perfect. For a moment, the darkness recedes and I force my eyes open only to find her watching me, her cheeks flushed and her eyes serious and endless. She takes my face in her hands again, lovingly and so carefully that I feel fragile, and she kisses me until the darkness disappears completely and is replaced with blinding white light so warm that I sink into it, sink into her, and fade away.