Photo negative. The dark expanse of space dotted with tiny star kisses, the universe yawning open. Twinkling. And then the galaxy of pale skin and tiny cinnamon footsteps, all the way down, not sewn in, not tattooed, how did this happen?
“They’re freckles.”
“All over. Impossible to count.”
“They’re not for counting,” Dawn says drolly, rolling her eyes. She shifts and the wave of her hair moves over her improbable skin like a shift of the tides. “They’re just, you know, there.”
“I have to count them. I have to know every inch. Hold still, or I’ll lose track—”
She rolls her eyes again but doesn’t squirm out of my hands. One hundred one, one hundred two, freckles everywhere, more cinnamon kisses than stars in the sky, and they’re everywhere, her thighs, her ribs, her breasts, dotting over her arms and the bridge of her nose, wrinkled in amusement.
“Stop it.”
“I’m not finished—”
“There are more important things you could be doing,” she asserts.
One hundred three, one hundred four . . .
“No, I—”
Her green eyes twinkle. “You could be kissing me.”
I stop counting. There are more important things I could be doing.
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