What Not To Do

They had a few great laughs, a lot of delicious meals, a quiet Halloween. They'd moved somewhat slowly, but faster when she needed someone to take care of her when she fell of her bike and broke her elbow. She trusted him, and he trusted her, but his feelings grew too strong, like a balloon filled with too much jello. She'd spent the night at his apartment a few times, and he was gracious enough to clean his sheets for her, make her coffee in the morning, and they sat out on his porch in the sun. He bought her a toothbrush and placed it next to his. She wasn't used to this, she liked it but knew that it was too much all at once. She asked for space. She asked to have a little breathing room. He asked to be exclusive. She backed away further, slowly, like a kid backs away from a thought-to-be-ghost in the night. He thought the best way to test her, the best way to know, would be to make her think there was someone else. To trick her, like a mad hatter. He placed a toothbrush next to the one he had given her, between hers and his own.

She found it soon after, she saw it in the cabinet behind the mirror, closed the cabinet, and looked up into the mirror, her eyes wide. She considered herself, considered the thought of the toothbrush, and like James and Lily Potter he suddenly appeared in the mirror behind her. "Do you want to talk about it?" he smiled.

She couldn't get her shoes on, couldn't get down the stairs, out the door, down the quiet and dark avenue, to the A train, fast enough.