Romantic Love

a

to chop one down. It's not going particularly well for him. I've never watched

s coordination, however, certainly leaves something to be desired. He said he'd been injured in Afghanistan, so how old would that make him? If I re

ctively. When I hazard a peek, he has turned back to the tree. His left hand comes up over his head and pulls the ski mask off. Thick, wavy brown hair tumbles out. His hair is long for a man, just brushing the tops of his shoulders. I stare at the ba

I suspect out of pity. Ryan looks down at it, his chest heaving. He begins to hack at the limbs. I turn away from the window, walking t

ants from becoming a puddle around my ankles. The plaid shirt I'm wearing also sports rolled sleeves. I tied it just below the waist to keep it from looking overly long and loose. My curly hair is loose and gloriously clean, finally fr

itchen, looking for food, Ryan enters and wordlessly walks to the bathroom

pping the last two, I turn and smile at him, proud of my small accomplishment. I've never made pancakes without a recipe before, b

akfast," I say, ges

ck to me again. He resumes staring at me

ou like

he far end. He picks up one of the plates I set out earlier and begi

," he says

im puttering about at the table, then a loud clang. I place the pancakes on the stack and look a

rasping the fork, its contents deposited back on the plate, between the thumb a

It's the mask. It covers his mouth, and he's

ack to me, having tur

questioning my motives I try to make my request sound reasonable. "There's, there's, um," I grasp. "There's a coffee table there an

a little embarrassed by my outburst, I sit and begin fixing my own plate.

ing against his plate, I am tempted to turn and look at him. But I promised him, though I didn't ex

a stranger than I was when I first woke up here, but I can't go back home. I can't go back to school. I'm not safe anywhere. I don