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“I don’t think our souls were made for this.”
“Made for what?”
“Made for being out here.” but my soul was made for you, he thinks.
“Then what were our souls made for?” she rolls over and over in the grass, hair fanning out above her head and twisting between the blades of grass, seeds getting tangled in it.
“I think mine was made for flying.”
“We all know that.” she spreads her arms out and closes her eyes; muscles clenching as her hands reach above her. “And you tell us all the time.” she rests one hand across her forehead and half-opens one eye to smile at him. “Now tell me properly.”
“Tell you properly what?” he lowers himself down to be beside her and the grass bends beneath him, fingers crumbling up the ground that’s dry and damp like the land itself is sweating: the pieces ply between the pads of his fingers and trickle under his nail where he’ll be digging them out from for days.
“Tell me properly how your soul is made for flying.”
“I don’t know how I could say it more properly than ‘my soul is made for flying’.”
“Tell me like you’re writing about it for an English class.”
“I don’t take English.”
“You used to.”
“And I was appalling at it.”
She hums her agreement and nudges his foot with hers. “It’s too hot to hold your hand.”
“Are you just going to kick me instead?”
“Maybe.”
“What is your soul made for?”
She hums again. “Probably just proving people wrong.”
They lie in the grass on their backs on the mud that dried weeks ago and in only a few weeks time will be back to mud and not long after that will probably be impossible to walk through without sinking up to your ankles. The sun is warm and the wind is picking up, trembling with dregs of sea salt and maybe even a distant rumbling earth-shaking storm contemplating a night dancing.
“My soul is made for this.” she murmurs.
They both know it’s a lie.
“You’re not proving anyone wrong here.”
“No one thought I could love you. I didn’t think I would love you.” she whispers.
“I fly when I’m with you.”
“I think the sun’s getting too us and we’re turning mushy.”
“Yeah.”
“Wanna go swimming?”
“Race you.”