Puretaboo
Lena Paul, Siri Dahl, Troy Francisco Pic(s)
The low hum of conversation was a distant sea agat the shore of my own quiet breathing, my presence a ghost at the feast of their intimacy. His hand, large and warm, rested on the small of her back, a casual claim that sent a shiver through the space between my own shoulder blades. I watched the way her head tilted when she laughed at his joke, a private sound meant for him alone, the curve of her neck a pale invitation in the dim light. The scent of her perfume, something dark like jasmine and night-blooming flowers, tangled with the sharp, clean smell of his cologne, creating an intoxicating cloud that excluded me. My fingers tightened around the cool stem of my glass, the condensation a damp mockery of the heat radiating from their intertwined bodies. Every glance they exchanged was a silent conversation, a language of half-smiles and lingering eyes I could observe but never interpret. The space on the velvet couch beside me felt vast and empty, a palpable void emphasized by the way her knee brushed agat his with every shift of her weight. I could taste the faint bitterness of my drink and something else, a metallic tang of longing sharp on my tongue. In that crowded room, I was an island of observation, acutely aware of every whispered word and fleeting touch that built a world for two, leaving me stranded on the outside, yearning to cross an invisible line.
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