You withdraw the wooden box, but keep it hidden beside your leg. Starlight shifts, but seems unalerted. Centipedes scurry behind your rib cage. You steady your breathing and curl your fingers through her tail. She chuckles. You squeeze the box.
“I was worried,” Starlight says. You pause. She continues, “When I saw you, I thought it was something serious.” She pushes her nose to your ear. She kisses it.
You hide the box beneath your palm and ask what she means.
Starlight shakes her head. “You rarely visit here. When I saw you, I thought ‘this is the last thing I need today’.”
You chuckle nervously. Your courage is a crumbling foundation.
Starlight puts her hoof on your leg. Her eyes are lidded. “I should have known better. You’ve never been a burden.”
You slip the box into your pocket and smile. Starlight tilts her head.
“But why did you come today?”
You choke on your words. Lying to her, even a white lie, is like bile.
Starlight frowns. “What?”
You stutter disconnected sentences. Her eyes narrow. Your heart is a drum solo. You say the first true sentence that comes to mind. You say “I love you”.
Starlight blinks. She opens and closes her mouth. She looks away, then returns to you. She leans forward. She kisses your lips. Your body firms, but she weaves your tension. Her touch, her breath. You relax. When her kiss breaks, you’re calm. She stares into you. You trace your hand up her side. You withdraw the box.
She looks at it and gasps. It’s varnished oak. Atop it is engraved a kite.