The cemetery was tucked between trees, the ground soft underfoot. He kept his eyes on the coffin, jaw locked, face unreadable. Not unreadable to her, but to everyone else maybe. To her, it was clear as anything. The way he blinked a fraction slower. The way his breathing stuttered once when his mother stepped forward to speak. The way his fingers flexed at his sides, like they were looking for hers and didn’t know how to ask.
She stood beside him, coat sleeves brushing. Didn’t touch him yet. Not until he moved first, his arm ghosting behind her back, fingers settling at her waist, grounding himself with that quiet, seeking contact. Only then did she lean in, let her shoulder press to his, solid and sure.
The smell of damp grass. Old stone. Cut flowers already browning at the edges. A faint whiff of whisky on someone’s breath nearby. She breathed through it, tuned out the world until all she could feel was him beside her and the ache in the air that hadn’t settled.
termites of the page 