John had barely noticed the touch, because he had been too engrossed in the book heâd been reading. It was rare these days that he actually got the time to read anything, let alone finish it, so when he finally surfaced from his thoughts he found himself looking over.
  âEverything alright?â
  The touch wasnât unpleasant, quite the opposite actually, but it was surprising to say the least.
  She hadnât fully intended to reach for the scars peeking at her from where his loose shirt dipped over his shoulder, they just caught her fascination. Xiomara stands behind Johnâs chair on her porch, with the mug of tea sheâs just made him. She whips her hand back when he turns to her, embarrassed by her absentmindedness. Putting the mug down on the side table.
 âSorry, I noticed and then, well you know how I adore drifting off on tangents. I didnât mean to disturb your reading.â
  The early morning sun still cool with dew, the sea lapping at the shore further down her beach. She moves to the yoga mat on the sandstone porch, just by where the steep stairs descend to the beach below. Stretching her legs, palms to the mat she shifts up into a handstand, slow, controlled, with a mewling whine of the first, morning stretch.Â
âI started thinking about all the stories we both have, they're written across our bodies in pinks and whites. I think its a more romantic idea than a realistic idea really.â
The siren closes her eyes, breathing slowly. Xiomara wears the crisp, white, linen shirt she always sleeps in, it sits bunched up by her shoulder blades, revealing more than her own fair share of scars in return. White whisps hatching across most of her upper back, darker punctures following the curve of her ribcage.
