He'd kept breathing something too low for me to hear and when
he put his lips right to my ear, I heard what he'd been saying all
along, "Oh God, oh God, my God, oh God," and I'd felt a warmness like
slow honey start in my toes and rise through me like sap to the roots of
my hair, so that I felt like I was saturated with something hot and
sweet and delicious.
He came home that night with the makings of a huge dinner with boiled
soft-shell crabs, and a bottle of completely decent Chilean red, and
three dresses for me that I could never, ever wear. I tried to keep the
disappointment off my face as he pulled them out of the bag, because I
*knew* they'd never go on over my wings, and they were *so* beautiful.
"This one will look really good on you," he said, holding up a Heidi
dress with a scoop neck that was cut low across the back, and I felt a
hot tear in the corner of my eye. I'd never wear that dress in front of
anyone but him. I couldn't, my wings would stick out a mile.
I knew what it meant to be different: It meant living in the second
floor with the old Russian Auntie, away from the crowds and their
eyes. I knew then what I was getting in for -- the rest of my life spent
hidden away from the world, with only this man to see and speak to.
I'd been out in the world for only a few years, and I had barely touched
it, moving in silence and stealth, watching and not being seen, but oh,
I had *loved it*, I realized.
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