Read Online This Is How I'd Love You by Hazel Woods - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Hazel Woods
Ads: Link
opening and there are a thousand seams to sew. Perhaps I should take all of this home with me.”
“And leave me? When I am most vulnerable?” He walked to the center of the stage, his footsteps echoing across the theater. Beneath the dimmed lights, he spoke. “This,” he said as he gestured to his heart, “does not make excuses, Hensley. I’ve made my home beneath your skin, in the place where your breath begins and your pulse throbs. You cannot deny me now. I may never return.”
He walked back across the stage, breathless, his shirt open. “Let me show you what it is to truly be inside another. To live in the deepest part of ourselves.”
Hensley was trembling at the audacity of his suggestion. But she was also terrified of his death. There were already tears forming as he led her to the stable that the prop department had constructed with cardboard and straw. A papier-mâché horse stood watch as she allowed Mr. Teagan what she believed was his heart’s greatest desire.
• • •
I t is nearly noon and the house cats are basking in the summer sun that drenches the small courtyard behind the house when Hensley ties Thunder to a post nearby. They are somehow oblivious to the tin of smoked trout Hensley opens, anticipating her father’s return for lunch. She plates the fish, pulls a handful of crackers from the barrel, and apportions some of the deep red raspberries she collected yesterday from the riverbank into a small bowl.
Hensley pushes the screen door open. The cats, Isaac and Newton, blink in acknowledgment. Hensley drags her fingers across Newton’s gray head, his fur hot and dry. The cats were here when they arrived last month, though nameless. They mewed loudly the first few days, staking their claim to the patches of sunlight that warmed the wood floors and the muslin-covered settee that stood before the fireplace, placing dead mice upon the hearth and at their bedsides. They also tumbled and played against each other with such alacrity that her father thought they were a perfect embodiment of Newton’s Third Law of Motion. Their antics are a welcome diversion for Hensley, but their indifference reminds her again and again that they belong to the house, not to her.
Her father likes to call this small patch of unmortared bricks their terrace. But it is really just a blank space between exterior walls. It is also where they’ve stacked several wooden crates in which their belongings were packed. Hensley leans against this stack and looks to the land beyond their house. The absence of buildings, bridges, motorcars, fireplugs is still disorienting. The blue sky haunts her with its immensity; its constant, aching presence. Hensley sometimes winces when she walks outside, afraid of the way the landscape shrinks her. She has never felt so small and inconsequential.
The mound of dirt behind their house slowly rises, becoming a steep hill just one hundred yards away. There are several structures, one just a pile of logs hammered together with a tarp thrown over the top, that look down upon the back of Hensley and her father’s house.
Berto’s house is at the top of the ridge, with a view over the town and beyond. He shares the place with his sister, but Hensley has only seen the girl once, in the twilight, smoking a cigarette, her long dark hair falling in front of her face. Hensley waved, but the girl threw the cigarette to the ground and stepped on it, extinguishing its glow. Then she went inside and let the screen door fall closed behind her so that it echoed down the hill.
Their own house faces the main street, which is but a wide dirt boulevard lined with large cottonwood trees. A wooden sidewalk runs the length of each side, echoing the vibrations and noise of the town’s commerce all the way to their front porch. It is the only piece of life here that reminds her of a city and she loves to listen to the wooden slats clicking and groaning as people go about their day. At noon and at
“And leave me? When I am most vulnerable?” He walked to the center of the stage, his footsteps echoing across the theater. Beneath the dimmed lights, he spoke. “This,” he said as he gestured to his heart, “does not make excuses, Hensley. I’ve made my home beneath your skin, in the place where your breath begins and your pulse throbs. You cannot deny me now. I may never return.”
He walked back across the stage, breathless, his shirt open. “Let me show you what it is to truly be inside another. To live in the deepest part of ourselves.”
Hensley was trembling at the audacity of his suggestion. But she was also terrified of his death. There were already tears forming as he led her to the stable that the prop department had constructed with cardboard and straw. A papier-mâché horse stood watch as she allowed Mr. Teagan what she believed was his heart’s greatest desire.
• • •
I t is nearly noon and the house cats are basking in the summer sun that drenches the small courtyard behind the house when Hensley ties Thunder to a post nearby. They are somehow oblivious to the tin of smoked trout Hensley opens, anticipating her father’s return for lunch. She plates the fish, pulls a handful of crackers from the barrel, and apportions some of the deep red raspberries she collected yesterday from the riverbank into a small bowl.
Hensley pushes the screen door open. The cats, Isaac and Newton, blink in acknowledgment. Hensley drags her fingers across Newton’s gray head, his fur hot and dry. The cats were here when they arrived last month, though nameless. They mewed loudly the first few days, staking their claim to the patches of sunlight that warmed the wood floors and the muslin-covered settee that stood before the fireplace, placing dead mice upon the hearth and at their bedsides. They also tumbled and played against each other with such alacrity that her father thought they were a perfect embodiment of Newton’s Third Law of Motion. Their antics are a welcome diversion for Hensley, but their indifference reminds her again and again that they belong to the house, not to her.
Her father likes to call this small patch of unmortared bricks their terrace. But it is really just a blank space between exterior walls. It is also where they’ve stacked several wooden crates in which their belongings were packed. Hensley leans against this stack and looks to the land beyond their house. The absence of buildings, bridges, motorcars, fireplugs is still disorienting. The blue sky haunts her with its immensity; its constant, aching presence. Hensley sometimes winces when she walks outside, afraid of the way the landscape shrinks her. She has never felt so small and inconsequential.
The mound of dirt behind their house slowly rises, becoming a steep hill just one hundred yards away. There are several structures, one just a pile of logs hammered together with a tarp thrown over the top, that look down upon the back of Hensley and her father’s house.
Berto’s house is at the top of the ridge, with a view over the town and beyond. He shares the place with his sister, but Hensley has only seen the girl once, in the twilight, smoking a cigarette, her long dark hair falling in front of her face. Hensley waved, but the girl threw the cigarette to the ground and stepped on it, extinguishing its glow. Then she went inside and let the screen door fall closed behind her so that it echoed down the hill.
Their own house faces the main street, which is but a wide dirt boulevard lined with large cottonwood trees. A wooden sidewalk runs the length of each side, echoing the vibrations and noise of the town’s commerce all the way to their front porch. It is the only piece of life here that reminds her of a city and she loves to listen to the wooden slats clicking and groaning as people go about their day. At noon and at
Similar Books
