The Weight of Rain by Mariah Dietz

midair in an awkward stance. My brain is yelling at me to object the offer, to make an excuse for food allergies or about being late, but the excitement dancing in Parker’s wide blue eyes makes me swallow my words along with the bite of food.
    It’s some sort of rice mixed with vegetables, coated in a light sauce that is slightly tangy and aromatic against my tongue. It’s delicious even as leftovers, assuring me that it was mouthwatering when King first made it.
    “What do you think, Lauren? Is it better than sex?” King’s voice is bold with the edge of a joke hanging on the word sex.
    I can feel my face heat with humiliation. Concealing my embarrassment is something I’ve never been able to master. It’s always been apparent by the deep flush that covers my cheeks and makes me feel like I’m in a sauna.
    “Way better.” My throat feels too dry from the bite and his shocking question, but my words are clear. Parker’s eruption of laughter confirms they were also loud enough to be heard. My eyes move to King for a moment, my feet firmly planted in place to convey I’m not bothered by his innuendo.
    “Really? So you’re silent while you do the dirty, huh?” King asks.
    A new wave of embarrassment burns my cheeks, and I catch him raise his eyebrows for a second, before they fall back in place. His lips quirk ever so slightly—so slightly I don’t know that anyone would even catch the expression if they didn’t know to look for the truth.
    “Not when it’s so good it deserves to be heard.”
    Rather than narrowing into a glare like I’m expecting from his previous reaction, King’s eyes brighten with humor and he slowly nods a couple of times. Thankfully, Parker’s laughter distracts me, and I look over to catch him with his head thrown back and his mouth wide as he laughs like my words merit the reaction. But it’s only a second before my eyes turn back to King.
    Lately I’ve begun sketching Mercedes here and there—something I have been grateful for after such a long dry spell—but my fingers and mind feel a familiar desire to draw King’s reaction with every detail my eyes are soaking in. I haven’t felt this buzz, this unattainable desire to draw and get every line I’m carefully storing to memory, for so long, I feel nearly drunk from it.
    I need to go. I need to go now so I can draw while this yearning is still flowing through me. Even if King is my subject again, I need to feel the power only attainable when my charcoal is able to transform a blank sheet.
    “I’ll see you guys later.” Without waiting for a reply, I head outside where the dampness from the air fills my lungs. It makes them feel heavier, stretched, like the air here weighs more because of how much moisture clings to everything surrounding me.
    My thoughts are so consumed by everything I want to draw; I’m at the bus stop before it seems possible. I then watch everyone that passes me, noting details and sizes, shades, emotions—things I haven’t been able to see clearly for months. It’s nearly overwhelming, not just because there is so much to be seen, but because I am so relieved to once again see it.
    The charcoal in my hand doesn’t hover with indecision as it has for so many weeks; it glides across the paper with ease. It’s as though I’m allowing myself to finally draw what I’ve been waiting to create for forever, though it’s impossible, because I have only known King a short time. Somehow, every single detail of him is perfectly stored to memory. So familiar, I don’t have to think to recall the line of his jaw or plains of his cheeks. I know each contour so well, it’s as though he’s been a constant throughout my entire life.
     
    M Y BACK is tight and stiff up to my neck, and my wrist aches when I finish shading a final strand of hair. Still, I feel reluctant to stop. It feels so good to be able to draw once again. My eyes burn and my lids feel suddenly heavy. It isn’t a conscious decision, but