The pull begins from the center of my belly and extends outwards. It feels like a string, constantly tugging at me. I try my best not to look at you.
You're sitting across the table, hands crossed, fidgeting. You stretch, and my eyes trace the lines that your shirt makes across your shoulders. The string extends further, runs taut so that I must clench my fists to keep from falling.
The space between us marks the impossibility of crossing. The ring around your finger never glitters, but sometimes I force myself to catch its attention, to remind myself to sit still. The ring is gold and steady. A decade's worth of love. I am merely the tint that grows, unwanted; mere circumstance. You could simply polish me off.
This is what I tell myself when I catch reflection in your eyes. You take on my mannerisms. So I change mine. I cannot be the catalyst. I do not want my touch to ruin. I want my touch
to be gold against your skin.
YOU ARE READING
The Red String Theory
RomanceForbidden love. Lust. Hunger. I never wanted this. I never wanted it to be like this. I tug at the edge of my collar nervously. You're watching the movement of my fingers with an eagle's eye. You swallow. I melt.
