Boarding School
Terracotta Bones
Standing in the doorway, a suit of armor whispers back, "I wish things were different, too."
A million dreams rise out of the swirled whipped cream in a mug of hot chocolate.
Summer ends in a flurry of vivid green leaves, steam engines, raucous dining halls, plaid uniform skirts and itchy blue jackets. In the morning, sunlight blares through the east window of the girls' dormitory. A scowling, chubby old lady admonishes Winry for her decidedly masculine playmates.
After a basketball game on hot asphalt, Al swings his arm around Winry's neck, panting. She can feel the tense muscle; she can smell the sweaty, thick scent of boy. Her t-shirt sticks to her back, between the shoulder blades. Through Ed's unbuttoned collar, she sees the sinew in his neck and the shadow of his collar bone.
Secret beer bottles glisten in the Elrics' room, the color of their hair, the taste of freedom. Winry and the brothers sit in a circle on the worn-out floor, giggling.
Sometimes, Ed loses his temper with the other hotheaded punks. Every time, Winry's heart seizes. Al hugs her arms so she can't move. Ed swings his fist back and punches the boy in the face. A crack. Blood runs. The crowd howls like a pack of dogs.
They argue in low voices in the clinic. Winry growls, "Why do you fight so hard?"
Ed just glares at her over the bandage.
Even if things were different, they wouldn't be.