Saffron A. Kent

“It-It burns when you look at m-me,” I whisper, my tongue feeling heavy.

“Flames dance in your eyes, in them the fire resides.

Turning me into ashes. Black and p-powdery.

It…It’s a slow process. My disintegration.”

“Jesus, Layla. Look at yourself. You need to take care of yourself.

“No, you’re not. You hate me. You’re always giving me a death glare, like I’m responsible for, I don’t know, terrorism or global warming or something.”

A cup of coffee is a pocketful of sunshine for you.

Thomas tenses. “I never knew. I wondered, though.”

“What?”

His eyes roam around, from the tops of my breasts to my belly button ring. “That you blush with your whole body.” I blush harder, making him chuckle.

“This is what happens when you do something I specifically told you not to. This is what happens when you strut in here in your short skirt and purple fucking coat and give me those big, violet eyes.”

We’re soul mates, Thomas. You’re like my favorite song. You have to talk. You can’t live like this. You’re holding on too tight. You remind me of some kind of fire-breather.

Layla Robinson, the fire-breather.

My fire-breather.

“A lover is the one who waits,” he paraphrases. “Then, I’ll wait. Forever.”

“Simone’s not here, is she?”
“Because she’s fucking cramming for a test,” Joe reminds him.
“Yeah, which ain’t exactly supporting her boyfriend who’s just won a game.”
Now Joe is the angry one. “You never deserved her, you fucking pig.”

He tsks some more. “See, I don’t think I like you lying to me, baby.”

“Don’t you call me baby. I’m not your fucking baby.”