I’ve written 700+ words today, bringing my Camp NaNoWriMo attainment over 30,000 words (target 40,000) and my total for the novel up to 44,285. I’m 400+ words into Chapter 12 (out of approximately 15), but I am vair, vair tired, so there’s just enough time for a celebratory excerpt before I must go and use the sleep.
The rain starts as we hurry down the path out of halls, swirling, sloping tarmac paths darkening under our feet. Shadows flicker, and raindrops saturate the spaces between the tiny stones, turning plain paving into a night sky, sparkling with a million stars under the floodlights pouring a river of bright white satin in front of us as we run.
Suzette grabs my hand and tugs me forward, her breaths billowing foggy in the cold night air as her Oxford heels strike the pavement, deep brown leather broguing twinkling. Her shoes look like witches’ boots against the night, her legs in their shale-coloured cable-knit stockings casting long shadows across the lawns. In silhouette she’s a work of art, a charcoal figure on black paper, surrounded by a haze of chalk dust. Her inky hair flows behind her like a cloak.
Stretching an arm out in front of her, she points with a long finger at a white-gold glow behind the trees. “The bus!” she signs, “Come on! We can’t miss it!”
And she’s right again, of course. It’s far too cold--winter setting in like old age, taking the skin first, then the bones, then the mind--to stand around and wait for the next one. I picture myself shivering at the bus stop, huddling with Suzette behind a sheen of plexiglass too thin to stand up against the wind; I see it tremble just like us, at the mercy of Devon’s terrible elements, at the mercy of the violent chill and the heavy night. I picture it, and I shudder. Even the thought of standing still makes the freezing air so much harder to ignore.
And so I run, let Suzette drag me along until it feels like I’m flying, a ribbon trailing behind her, a wisp of cobalt blue watercolour paint exhaling itself in a paint jar, blossoming from the bristles of a brush.
Her hand is warm, soft and gentle like a sweet caress, firm and assured like a tight embrace. My hand drinks it in, nerves gasping at the press of her fingertips, skin craving pressure, muscles aching to reciprocate.
