Who Names The Colors

The Dream

"I think we need to turn off the lights. Do you have a torch? Or a camping lantern?" Harry was committed to his silhouette painting. Jo was committed to making him smile while they were together. Over the long days and short nights he had been letting himself into her house, she'd reconciled herself to their new odd arrangement.

It was like a jacket too tight in the shoulder, but perfect everywhere else. Most of the time together though, she just enjoyed it, as the bitter chocolate for the bit of sweet.

"We have the lantern from the Lake District." Her smile was glass.

Harry didn't break it, "Yeah? I'll go fetch it? Where's it at?"

"Probably," she thought about it, god that camping trip felt like forever ago, "it's probably in the back of the car- the boot, maybe?"

"Ok, I'll be right back, baby," he leaned over and kissed her. They were ignoring it. That's what it was, they were both doing it, pretending, playing house.

Their suspended reality, tightrope walk was exhilarating and addictive. She never knew that was a thing she had inside her, to do a thing because she shouldn't. And she was squeezing this lemon for every bit of juice. That's what tonight was.

They were making lemonade, to drink when they were thirsty for each other in the near future. Nearer than she had shared. Zoe was coming home in three days. So Harry was out, and Zoe was in, and that was that.

She had yet to tell Harry this. She had to tonight, end the fantasy.  But not yet, not before they drew their dreams.

Harry came in, lantern aloft, like a hero. A tragic one, Greek. His hair was up and she knew that was necessary, but she could not wait to take it down.

"Found it!" Those dimples, they were something to draw about. 

Jo walked into his arms and backed him up to the stool and hung the lantern on the string they'd put on a hook in the ceiling. It cast his shadow beautifully and she started on the canvas.

"You're frustrated?" Harry asked twenty minutes in when her sighs were louder than needs be.

"I just- I want to trace you, lover." But that would mean on the wall. She'd have to paint the whole wall if she did-harder to hide.

Harry looked at her, then the wall, then her. "So trace me, and I'll trace you."

Jo's heart sped up. They were horrible about leaving evidence. They still hadn't discussed the video tape. The idea was compelling though, she could already see him there, a version of permanent. She could hang something over it, and he'd be in her house with her forever.  She could look at it when she wanted. Harry would not have that luxury.

"You won't have it if it's on my wall though." 

He bit his lip and closed his eyes, drawn for a minute, "I'll make do with the canvas." He said when he opened them. "Or you can come over and I can cast you onto my wall."

Jo shook her head. She hadn't been to his at all. Couldn't, and as she had discovered about herself in the last seven months, she could be very selfish. She wanted to keep all of the memories inside her own walls. And his house, well his studio, was a place where all of her reason flew out the nonexistent windows. She'd say vows in that room if he asked, and got an officiant, she was sure.

"Ok," Harry quirked one side of his mouth, and the smirk was like a really good fake purse, only she could tell it wasn't authentic. "Get tracing woman!" He stayed put, and she listened, walked to the wall, stood in front of him, and used the thin black pencil to capture just the edges of his face. She'd finished the square of his jaw, when she looked back at him. The next step was her must. Instead of asking, she walked over and loosed his hair, pressed a kiss to the right angle of his mandible and went back to get the hair. His hair, she was almost jealous it was better than hers. She wondered how they looked from behind, in their vintage flares and t shirts and messy buns. She'd set up the camera and check, today. Or tomorrow, their last day. Today, more lemonade, she'd swim in it if she could.