Shelly showed her soul to some guy once and he shrugged.
“Ya, so what?”
It’s funny now because he’s just some guy, but back then she was devastated.
Back then it was Forest the genius up-and-coming installation artist who did incredible things with polished titanium and plastic grocery bags.
Shelly fell in love with his work. His creation filled her with childlike awe. There was something so real about standing beneath his sky. It was better than being outside on a cool May evening. Better than far away stars. Better than the sweet streams of churned earth and Plumeria fields after a good downpour.
Forest watched her filling with wonder as she took in his work. He stunned her with his intense stare and immediate claim.
Quick, quick, like a lion.
He made her feel like a lioness.
Shelly, as a rule, doesn’t give into passion. She reads her lit books seriously and eats her microwave meals with a fork.
It was crazy for her to consider making love with a stranger. But she found herself in his bed that night. Dizzy and drunk on the passion that swelled her cells.
Shelly’s momma had told her to never sleep with anyone before showing that person her true self.
That stuck, even in the haze.
When Forest shrugged, the spell was broken. Shelly covered herself and walked out.
She held in sobs, tucked as a hard curl digging into her lungs, until she had stumbled all the way home.