There are people who do not belong. Audra trails fingers down the newly painted wall until she reaches the corner and stops. She knows you are watching. She turns into your gaze, lips caught between teeth, eyes wide with hope. Maybe this will be the place.
If home is where the heart is, you know you will need more than a fresh coat of paint to keep her this time. You extend your hand, a surprise concealed in warming flesh. Audra takes it between her own and gifts a kiss on the palest skin of your wrist.
Your fingers part to reveal a palm-smudged crystal teardrop on a satin cord. You tell her how the prism captures rays of light and color, sunset painted walls and skin, new again each day. She dangles it in a beam, dancing rainbows through your hair, her laughter melting corners.