when she moved in, she brought only two
bags; one, she had filled with clothes, her
perfume, a framed photograph. the other
held nothing but books. lord of the rings,
the chronicles of narnia, harry potter, a
wrinkle in time; he discovered more about
her in these pages than he ever could by
just asking her. she had underlined the
passage where sam fought shelob, had
marked meg and mr. murry's reunion with
a piece of ribbon. the spines had bent
into the shape of her fingers, the ink had
faded in spots where she had kissed the
words for love of them.
in the dark, her profile was smudged and
vague, the curves of her lips softened by
shadow. she was beautiful when she
blazed in finery, when the sun had woven
strands of copper into her skin; but now
was when he found himself truly loving her.
there was something about her as she lay
defenseless, innocent and pure, no mask
of sensuality that barely covered up the
urge to bolt. this pretense broke his
heart more than anything else--what hand
first pinned it on her, which man showed
her that the only worth she had was in the
valleys of her body?
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