Page 52 of Torn

“How do you know?” she asks.

“He’s holding her, but she’s not holding him. I just…” He swings those graphite eyes toward Merry, like he doesn’t understand, like she’ll be able to translate. “I merely feel it.”

After they leave, he barely speaks, uttering a minimum of words, the accumulation of which fits in a shoebox.

***

One afternoon, she stares at his archery ensconced in the hammock alcove. The lithe and swanlike curvature of the longbow, the hard and sharp arrows such a contrast.

What is it like to aim and strike? To hit dead-center?

She checks the vacant rooftop and tiptoes toward the weapons. Picking up the bow and nocking an arrow, she pretends to hunt a pouf stool across the gravel.

I’m a warrior, an archeress pursuing true love and defending humanity from evildoers. Rawrrr!

“Not like that,” says a masculine voice.

Merry withholds a yelp. Caught red-handed, she gawks ahead rather than at the source.

A toned and tapered shadow falls over her, doused in heroic spice. Stationing himself behind her, so near behind her, he covers her hands with his palms. He modifies her stance, aligning their hips at the right degree, kicking her feet into the correct position.

Then he adjusts her fingers and grip. “Like so,” Anger instructs, the husk of his breath stroking her earlobe.

With Merry’s body fitted into his, he says to focus first andthenaim. And she needs to relax, relax, relax. But he’s rubbing against her ticklish spots, so she giggles, and he gets annoyed, and she cackles even more.

Okay, okay. She’s sorry.

He asks her if she’s ready, and a dart of excitement zips through her, and it’s a smooth release. They loose the arrow, which hits the pouf.

They stare at the explosion of feathers. She should find it uproarious, but they’re still intertwined, neither of them lowering the bow. Instead, he readies another arrow without asking, knowing she wants to try more.

By the end of it, Merry concludes that she’ll have to replace a set of poufs—and hundreds of plumes—pierced by half a dozen arrows. Standing amidst the mess, she twists and smiles at him, feeling proud and wanting to ask if he’ll keep teaching her.

But gracious! Anger doesn’t return the festive expression. Indeed, smiling is not what he does when he gazes at Merry.

***

Time is an assortment of ease and tension, understanding and misunderstanding. It’s confidence and self-consciousness, grins and frowns, subtle touches and awkward distances. It’s never just one act, one element, one feeling.

Merry’s a smorgasbord of sensations. Anger’s a riot of them.

Sometimes it’s effortless to wipe a speck of lint from his shirt. Sometimes it’s natural when he tucks an errant strand of pink into her ponytail. Sometimes it’s maddening when they simply take each other’s hand, producing clamminess, a surplus of nausea, and a stuttering heart.

Other times, she feels the hyperawareness of him reaching out, lifting his fingers while her gaze is averted. She does the same when he’s not looking, but neither of them makes it far.

Life is planned and unplanned.

Merry often indulges like a common deity, feasting for pleasure rather than occasional fortification. She gets Anger to savor their conjured meals, luxuriating in mixed berries, succulent figs, and creamy hunks of cheese oozing with cherry jam.

They tidy the rooftop while gabbing about the human idolization of mythology, listing the usual suspects.

“Togas,” she says.

“Virginal sacrifices,” he says.

“Murders and betrayals and vengeance,” she dramatizes. “Oh, and ambrosia.”

“Greek choruses,” he adds.

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