Ryan
I couldn't stop looking at her fingers.
They were small, delicate, and tipped with neat, unvarnished nails that she kept biting when she thought I wasn't paying attention. Every time she turned a page, the pale skin of her hand looked so fragile against the dark wood of the table that a fierce, irrational urge to reach out and cover it with my own slammed into my chest.
We were in her kitchen this time. It was Saturday morning, and her house was entirely too quiet. Her mom was at work, leaving just the two of us sitting at a small, cluttered table that smelled faintly of coffee and cinnamon.
She was trying to teach me about rhetorical analysis, her voice a steady, rhythmic hum that should have been boring. But all I could focus on was the way her lips moved, the slight pink color
