Kiss Kent. Really kiss him, slow and long, somewhere outside--maybe while it's snowing. Maybe standing in the woods. He'll lean forward and he'll have little snowflakes on his eyelashes again and he'll brush the hair away from my face and put a warm hand behind my neck, so warm it's almost burning--
Lauren OliverYou didn't miss anything in math," he says, and I recognize a Kent McFuller babble coming on.
Lauren OliverWe'll see," I say, smiling. "What about you? Are you going to be all by your lonesome? Table for one?"
He leans forward even more, and I stay perfectly still, willing myself not to pull away.
"Now why would you assume that?" He winks at me, obviously thinking that this is my version of flirting--like I'm going to offer to keep him company or something.
I smile even wider. "Because if you had a real girlfriend," I say quickly but clearly, so he can hear every word perfectly, "you wouldn't be hitting on high school girls.
And kissing Kent, because that's when I realized that time doesn't matter. That's when I realized that certain moments go on forever. Even after they're over they still go on, even after you're dead and buried, those moments are lasting still, backward and forward, on into infinity. They are everything and everywhere all at once.
Lauren OliverFor all the people who have infected me with amor deliria nervosa in the past
- you know who you are.
For the people who will infect me in the future
- I can't wait to see who you'll be.
And in both cases:
Thank you.
Stichwörter: love delirium amor-deliria-nervosa lauren-oliver
An eternity of chocolate fountains and perfect love and guys who always call when they say they will and banana sundaes that actually help you burn calories.
Lauren OliverYou don’t have to be worried, okay? You don’t have to be scared.” His voice is twinkling again. “I’m not flirting with you.”
Embarrassment sweeps through me. Flirting. A dirty word. He thinks I think he’s flirting. “I’m not—I don’t think you were—I would never think that you—” The words collide in my mouth, and now I know there’s no amount of darkness that can cover the rush of red to my face.
He cocks his head to the side. “Are you flirting with me, then?”
“What? No,” I splutter. My mind is spinning blindly in a panic, and I realize I don’t even know what flirting is. I just know about it from textbooks; I just know that it’s bad. Is it possible to flirt without knowing you’re flirting? Is he flirting? My left eye goes full flutter.
Stichwörter: flirting alex-sheathes lena-haloway
That was the first time my world exploded.
The second time my world exploded, it was also because of a word. A word that worked its way out of my throat and danced onto and out of my lips before I could think about it, or stop it.
The question was: Will you meet me tomorrow?
And the word was: Yes.
Stichwörter: alex-sheathes lena-haloway
“Would you like to?” he says. His voice is hardly audible above the wind—so low it’s barely a whisper.
“Would I like to what?” My heart is roaring, rushing in my ears, and though there are still several inches between his hand and mine, there’s a zipping, humming energy that connects us, and from the heat flooding my body you would think we were pressed together, palm to palm, face to face.
“Dance,” he says, at the same time closing those last few inches and finding my hand and pulling me closer, and at that second the song hits a high note and I confuse the two impressions, of his hand and the soaring, the lifting of the music.
We dance.
Lauren OliverStichwörter: dancing alex-sheathes lena-haloway
Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya tomorrow. A beautiful word, when you really think about it.
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