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“Y’know what my mama said?” The edges of Jane’s words are rounded, slightly slurred. There’s a strand of hair caught in her eyelashes and Nymphia goes to brush it away. One touch isn’t enough - she needs to cup her face, cradle her and keep her safe.
“We all have feelings for our girlfriends,” Jane recounts with a sad little laugh, and Nymphia’s heart fucking drops. “We just don’t act on them.”
“Isn’t that fucked up? Isn’t that such a horrible existence?” Jane goes like it isn’t herself that she’s talking about, like it’s someone else’s gossip and she’s a mere bystander, like it isn't her own soul she’s scrutinizing. “Always wanting something you can’t have?”
“You can,” Nymphia says and it’s from somewhere deep inside herself, something speaking without permission. Something she couldn't stop if she tried. “You can have it.”
Jane looks up at Nymphia. Her eyes are wide and impossibly glassy, almost childlike, almost willing to believe in something like magic. She’s beautiful in the worst way - cruelly captivating, unforgivingly so. She blinks up at Nymphia and does what she does best - completely and utterly perplexes her.
“Can I have you?”
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