For Keeps

The car hums softly in neutral, seven minutes after her curfew, as we sit together in silence, the almost end to a perfect date. She tells me to close my eyes and then traces her finger in the palm of my hand. Slow, angled strokes, letters overwriting themselves, but I can't imagine the shapes.

She leans over and kisses my cheek, but before I can remind myself to breathe, she’s already reaching for the door.

"What was that?" I ask.

"My initials," she smiles, and like handwriting scribbled on the inside of a t-shirt, I am hers to keep.

Talk story

  1. teter says:

    It's the "before I can remind myself to breathe" that gets me with this one, Kristel. You eye for the small but crucial detail has been honed by your photographic work—but for my money it's the work you do with your words that just knocks me out.

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