Woolen Thursday sweaters, gray as oatmeal, loose sleeved, green and gray flecked. They were sitting on the couch, her legs tucked up underneath her, his sprawled across her lap, reading. He would look up from his book and find she was watching him, face serious and sober, and then he’d smile and she’d smile at him and the sun would come out and they’d go back to reading their books. Or she’d feel his hand moving gently across her shoulder and she’d turn, half-absently, and kiss his fingers where they curved towards her neck, and he’d brush them against her cheek.

The looks and the kisses grew slowly together, coalescing as slow as honey. They twined together on the couch, their sweaters sparking in the dry autumn air. Their skin was hot and dry and electrically charged. His eyes were closed but hers were open, or his eyes were open and hers were closed. The static stiffened their hair, lifted it off of the couch, held it humming in the air. Blue light popped and snapped between their lips and leaped from fingertip to fingertip, finger to shoulder, finger to sweep of belly.

Light flared out of the windows.