The sidewalks were silent, mostly abandoned, as he followed his little gothic doll back to her home. It was just the two of them, walking quietly, and—to his strange surprise—saying nothing. She led, he chased; she glanced up from under her dark lashes and flashed him a smile, like a lady leading a puppy, and he trotted obediently at her heels. It was a clear night, but there was no moon, leaving only the streetlamps to cast their pools of light along the path.
Her hair was so fine and pale; he thought it must be soft, like long strands of spider’s silk. Without realizing he was doing it, he reached out to catch a few strands drifting in the breeze—and Genesis ducked away, spinning to face him.
At first he thought she must be angry, but she was smiling again, a sweet little smile, like dusted sugar. They had stopped between the streetlamps; in the slanted darkness he thought she looked very, very pale, almost white.
“Darry,” she said quietly. “Do you want to touch me so badly?”