On the Verge of Happyness

What we see before us is just one tiny part of the world. We get into the habit of thinking, this is the world, but that’s not true at all. The real world is a much darker and deeper place than this, and much of it is occupied by jellyfish and things.

Scout suddenly wore only the seen-better-days bra from the night before and, I realised, a pair of my dark blue fitted boxer shorts. Standing in the corridor like that she looked - well, she looked amazing. Pale and perfect: perfect-by-not-being-quite-perfect, real. Her long neck, ice-bridge collarbones, small breasts - old world marble sculpture rising a little way naked from worn functional bra cups - too skinny ribs, small but solid muscles working under her white white skin, moving her calves, her arms, the twist of her waist, my shorts stretching out over the curve of her hips and onto her thighs, the waistband scooping up at her stomach, and below the shorts’ loose, empty front with buttons - yes, I looked, quickly, guiltily, once, twice - the material tightened to a bumped V and disappeared between her legs.