Mute

I haven’t spoken since it happened. It’s not that I’m traumatized. It’s just, like the world is so full, so perfect that speaking would shatter it.

He looks across the room and smiles. I move towards him. The coffee in the green mugs he lifts to my lips smells like Irish Cream. Some of my family and friends doubt that I can tell flavors apart by smell alone but it’s a particular talent, like smelling the Old Spice aftershave on his cheek as he pulls me close and lifts the mug to my lips.

Outside sakura flowers fall from the trees in the spring wind. I close my eyes. There’s the fragrance of the Tide soap on his shirt and the orange peel essence on his fingers from preparing breakfast. A hint of leather lingers over both of us, almost lost beneath the shower cleansers and the light lotion on my face.

“Shut up.”

I laughed. He nuzzles my hair. “You’re thinking,” he whispered. Smiling, I twist around in his arms and play with the buttons on his shirt.

And still I can’t bring myself to speak.

“You’re happy, aren’t you?” he says. He touches my face. I bite my lip and nod. He chuckles. “Get dressed,” he says, slapping my bottom.

Tomorrow, the world will shatter apart again. Tomorrow something will ring words from my lips. Tomorrow I will try to fill this emptiness with meaningless chatter.

But why ruin perfection now?

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