okay. okay. okay.
three times. riza’s had three seconds to rest. she counts the granules of sand on her cheeks, what she can feel nestled into her pores, the ardent chafe of sand over skin. she’s become used to it by now. one, two, okay, okay, okay...
she fires three shots to fill the next three seconds.
**
his hands are sandpaper wrapped around her nape. his ring fingernail is chipped and it catches her hair, tugs, comes free again, and the sand in her teeth mingles with the sand on his tongue.
he shoves her jacket out of the way. hand spreads over her midsection. okay. okay. okay.
three seconds. she breaks free from his mouth, huffs in gulps of hot air, spreads her legs for him, the officer’s desk shifting under her weight. the sand’s a cockeyed surface, and it’s his arms that keep her upright.
“mr. mustang,” she starts. but what could she say?
**
the bell tower without a bell.
she can see everything from this vantage. that’s why she was placed here. her hawk’s eyes are better than binoculars, more adept, the perfect machine.
major mustang’s hands are still on her in the tower. she attempts to count her seconds — okay, okay — and the shame fills her, guilt down in her toes, and the next three seconds are filled with a quiet only she can provide. all around her are the sounds of hectic soldiers, some with red eyes, most without, and it’s her small gift to the world (not to herself, because that is selfish. because thinking of the major’s hands is selfish. because even counting is selfish.) that she keep her trigger finger-free for six seconds.
okay.
she rests the nose on the busted stone sill.
okay.
she finds her sights.
okay.