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Description
She Burns Like Summer

She comes downstairs wearing an old pair of khakis she's cut off around the knees, and one of your white A-shirts – and nothing else.  You look up, casually at first, only to have your gaze hijacked by the glory of her.  A long, solitary moment you absorb her shape and color, her sinewy movement, the way she seems to glow in the morning light.  You tear your eyes away, back to your musty tome, just in time before she catches you.  Or at least you think you do.

"It's hot," she moans – or maybe she sighs it, the words lingering on her lips in a way that makes you envious.  Either way, you feel the next beat of your heart like it was your first, the thick pulse of blood firing through every vein,  the surge and ebb burning in your capillaries, even.  You agree with her.

She falls into the chair across the small kitchen table from you in her natural way, all but draping herself across its sturdy woodwork.  Knees apart, elbows hooked over the low back, her poise is one that has been described as unladylike by the tactful, or as butch by everyone else, as well as some imaginative variations that fill the gap between.  Still, to you, it always feels like unwitting seduction, like she's always inviting you in whether she means to or not.

Right now you feel drawn to her, and she's not even looking at you – her dark eyes are scanning the view outside your kitchen window, inspecting the shimmering dunes and the cold dark waves that froth tirelessly upon them.  Tireless, too, are her eyes, searching and seeking for trouble that hasn't quite found you yet, but she knows it's out there, perhaps treading water just beyond the horizon, waiting for her to blink.

But she does, she has to, and instantly her silent vigil is shuttered and she is all yours again.  You smile involuntarily as she looks at you, either because you always feel like you lucked out somehow in her choosing you, or because you want to soothe the worry that you still can see faintly shadowing her.  Everything is alright, you want to reassure her, but the words don't quite coalesce.  They never do.

Her answering grin is like a spotlight, pinning you down, leaving you utterly vulnerable.  How long has she made you feel this way?  It seems like all your life – or if you had a life before her, you don't mind forgetting it.  Your eyes rake down the curve of her, needy, involuntarily, and this time you can't hope to hide it.

The grin she wears stretches even farther, reaching Cheshire proportions.  Slowly, so slowly it seems, she unhooks herself from her chair and leans in across the table, which is starting to feel small, smaller than you know it to be.  Because suddenly there she is, dark hair falling in across her face as she comes to meet you, her presence crashing in like a wave you never thought to escape until it was too late, and you're drowning in her.

She kisses you and it's like you've been holding your breath since the moment you saw her – like time had stopped and that heart beat that had felt like your first had actually been your last, and you were dying without her.  But now as you breathe her in, it feels like your heart will keep on pounding steady for as long as it takes, a drumbeat for you both to follow into the end of days.  For once you feel like you're going to live forever.

That is, if you manage to survive her.  She consumes you like a fire, and sometimes you forget that this goes both ways, that you're giving her as much as you're taking.  If she's the flame that powers you, then you're the fuel that powers her – and if that means burning alive with her, then you're just happy to be alive.

Description
She Burns Like Summer

She comes downstairs wearing an old pair of khakis she's cut off around the knees, and one of your white A-shirts – and nothing else.  You look up, casually at first, only to have your gaze hijacked by the glory of her.  A long, solitary moment you absorb her shape and color, her sinewy movement, the way she seems to glow in the morning light.  You tear your eyes away, back to your musty tome, just in time before she catches you.  Or at least you think you do.

"It's hot," she moans – or maybe she sighs it, the words lingering on her lips in a way that makes you envious.  Either way, you feel the next beat of your heart like it was your first, the thick pulse of blood firing through every vein,  the surge and ebb burning in your capillaries, even.  You agree with her.

She falls into the chair across the small kitchen table from you in her natural way, all but draping herself across its sturdy woodwork.  Knees apart, elbows hooked over the low back, her poise is one that has been described as unladylike by the tactful, or as butch by everyone else, as well as some imaginative variations that fill the gap between.  Still, to you, it always feels like unwitting seduction, like she's always inviting you in whether she means to or not.

Right now you feel drawn to her, and she's not even looking at you – her dark eyes are scanning the view outside your kitchen window, inspecting the shimmering dunes and the cold dark waves that froth tirelessly upon them.  Tireless, too, are her eyes, searching and seeking for trouble that hasn't quite found you yet, but she knows it's out there, perhaps treading water just beyond the horizon, waiting for her to blink.

But she does, she has to, and instantly her silent vigil is shuttered and she is all yours again.  You smile involuntarily as she looks at you, either because you always feel like you lucked out somehow in her choosing you, or because you want to soothe the worry that you still can see faintly shadowing her.  Everything is alright, you want to reassure her, but the words don't quite coalesce.  They never do.

Her answering grin is like a spotlight, pinning you down, leaving you utterly vulnerable.  How long has she made you feel this way?  It seems like all your life – or if you had a life before her, you don't mind forgetting it.  Your eyes rake down the curve of her, needy, involuntarily, and this time you can't hope to hide it.

The grin she wears stretches even farther, reaching Cheshire proportions.  Slowly, so slowly it seems, she unhooks herself from her chair and leans in across the table, which is starting to feel small, smaller than you know it to be.  Because suddenly there she is, dark hair falling in across her face as she comes to meet you, her presence crashing in like a wave you never thought to escape until it was too late, and you're drowning in her.

She kisses you and it's like you've been holding your breath since the moment you saw her – like time had stopped and that heart beat that had felt like your first had actually been your last, and you were dying without her.  But now as you breathe her in, it feels like your heart will keep on pounding steady for as long as it takes, a drumbeat for you both to follow into the end of days.  For once you feel like you're going to live forever.

That is, if you manage to survive her.  She consumes you like a fire, and sometimes you forget that this goes both ways, that you're giving her as much as you're taking.  If she's the flame that powers you, then you're the fuel that powers her – and if that means burning alive with her, then you're just happy to be alive.