AMALIA
you're staring at the sky
watching stars collide
Amalia rises in time with him, aware of how close he suddenly is to slipping down her stairs. Reaching out, she grabs his shoulder, trying to steady him and keep him on his feet. The idea of a bedtime story sends a brief flicker of something unhappy across her face, memories and bitter nostalgia slashing through her mind. These are the bedtimes stories her grandmother would tell her, the tales she slept to as a girl. For a moment Amalia is jealous, feral, loathe to share that experience, to give away the things so perfect, so precious among the cherished snippets of her absent past.watching stars collide
Then the moment passes, and Amalia smiles, her bitterness fading as quickly as it rose, replaced with a gentle laugh. "Sure," she answers, taking him by the hand, guiding him up the last of the steps and into the small attic room. It is not a particularly impressive space, rather small with little more than a bed and a chest with all her clothes. But it is pretty, somehow, sweetly decorated, colorful with fabric and paper flowers and a collection of dainty oil lamps. The bedspread is a crocheted night sky, deep blue with flickers of white stars, a little off-color with use and age. As they cross the threshold the baker becomes suddenly aware of two distinct things:
1) it is a rather juvenile appearing space, and
2) she has never had anyone in here before, let alone a man.
Clearing her throat uncomfortably, Amalia hopes he is too drunk to pay attention to her youthful decor, let alone her sudden, ferocious blush. "Come on," she murmurs, nudging him toward the bed. "And take off your shoes. I don't need dirt in my bed."
