Their knees touched underneath the table at the café months before their lips would ever meet. She felt his boney kneecap tap against her fleshy leg. Neither of them pulled away, with bone and skin together their chemistry turned all the plain foam in everybody’s drinks into latte art. They never had to discuss anything, they knew they were in love. He knew in the way that she looked at him and she knew in the way that he followed her around town.
“Why do you even try to drink cappuccinos and that pipe…what is the point of that pipe?” she asked. “You spill and make a smoky mess out of everything.”
“I like the way I look with my pipe and I like to sit with you and admire your olive skin and freckles,” he said.
They’d spent every minute together. They would take a blanket down to the river and she would read books to him and he would play his guitar for her. They would dance and laugh, but she wished for more. He was only bones, but they were bones she wanted to jump. She had fallen in love with a skeleton.