“Take it, keep it, it's yours now,” she said.
“What am I supposed to do with it?” he said.
“You'll figure something out, I’m sure.”
He tugged at the hair curling at his temples. She loved his curls like natural waves, kissing his brow, but she knew that if she told him how much she loved them, he would get rid of them, taking the scissors to his own hair.
“Do what you want with it,” she said. “I trust you.”
“Why do you put me in these situations? What kind of terrible person are you?”
She recoiled slightly, as though an invisible hand had smacked her once, hard, across the face, feeling the tide of blood clouding her skin, and she was ashamed; ashamed for asking this of him when, actually, it was really all her fault.
He took her hand and looked at her with eyes as wide and blue as oceans.
“Help me,” he said.
She turned away, and in this simple act, she felt removed from him, from them, from it.
“I trust you,” was all she said.
This Savage Song