It was the weakness of the floorboards that drew us inside, holding hands and waiting to crash through, smears of char on our cheeks, yesterday's bourbon still filming our tongues. The house had burned down a week before, at the end of a long road just outside of town. Neither one of us had spent any time in a house with more than one level, and stairs and danger held an allure that we couldn't deny.
The floor held and we were grateful, limbs and skin unbroken.
In the dark under the streetlights you smelled of citrus fruit just turning sour, a hank of my hair wrapped around your wrist, speaking deep and slow. It was only there on the sidewalk that the ground finally broke and we fell through.
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