Like the city, she always looked her best at night. We would be sitting on the quay, bare toes dipping lightly in the river, leaning back on our palms and watching the light from the bars slowly ripple out over the water. I would say something inane and stupid and she would turn away from me so she wouldn’t have to admit she’d laughed. I liked her like that. I liked the way little crinkles formed at the corners of her lips when she tried not to smile. I liked the way her shoulders trembled when she bottled her mirth within her, and the way she brushed her hair away when laughter shook it into her eyes. And when she turned back to tell me mock-seriously to shut the fuck up, I would see the light on the water’s surface reflected in her eyes. So I would search for something stupid to say again, to keep her exasperated and amused and to stop myself from telling her that I was in love with her.

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