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?”