In the early morning light, Eva ran in the snow. Down along the frozen banks of the river, beside its slow progress, her breath and her footfalls beating out a muffled rhythm.
The day after Christmas and the city was quiet early in the morning. Eva had found herself unable to sleep. She pressed an apologetic kiss to Mason's forehead and slipped from bed.
In warm running clothes, her sneakers tread quietly past the torn wrapping and opened packages from the previous nights' gift exchange. Out into the hallway she escaped, her body picking up speed as she hurried down into the street, into the cold, all concentration focused on drawing that first deep frigid breath, the realization finally dawning that she had felt stifled.
And so she ran.
Eva never knew why she felt the things she felt. Her emotions darted like a school of fish, together, but constantly moving, splitting, breaking apart, and then reforming again.
Life was simply too good. There was too much joy. Too much pleasure. Too much love. Eva had the sense that the ground was about to fall away beneath her feet. And she'd rather jump than fall.
She followed the path beside the river until it opened up on the sea, its endless waves disappearing in a snowy fog. Her footfalls slowed to a halt, and she squinted out into the white stretch of the ocean, her breath billowing in frosty plumes.
There was always something. Something to remind her that grief and death existed in the same moment as love and life. The chilling news of Jewell's death. The anxious look in Fio's eyes. The loneliness behind Lirssa's little girl smile. The weariness in both Lucien and Ali's expressions, a look they both held, but never showed each other. The reserved hope shared between Eless and Connar. And the look that Mac got, the look of loving someone you couldn't hold onto.
And then there was the fortune. From Zoltar. On the nice list, your name slumbers. How'd you like to paint by numbers?
Both she and Mason assumed the message was about the Muse. Any mention of paint jolted fear in Eva's belly, a programmed call and response.
But the truth was, Eva did paint by numbers. That was how she spent her days. Describing the world in numbers.
She totaled shipments, calculated taxes, subtracted losses. She could calculate the area of the Market Square, the Southern Glen, the bed she shared with Mason. She could calculate the dosage of his heart medication, and the rate at which it would stop working. She could write an equation to describe the shape of the snowflakes that fell on her shoulders as she ran away from him, an equation to describe the distance that grew between them with every step, an equation to describe the speed of her flight.
Eva looked out across the ocean, at the constancy of its waves. She could write an equation to describe the infinite rise and fall of those waves. But she couldn't write an equation for the way that the waves changed, the way that each one was unique, and the way they would continue changing, forever. For that she'd need a different kind of infinity. A kind that could not be painted with numbers. A kind that existed only in her heart.
The day after Christmas and the city was quiet early in the morning. Eva had found herself unable to sleep. She pressed an apologetic kiss to Mason's forehead and slipped from bed.
In warm running clothes, her sneakers tread quietly past the torn wrapping and opened packages from the previous nights' gift exchange. Out into the hallway she escaped, her body picking up speed as she hurried down into the street, into the cold, all concentration focused on drawing that first deep frigid breath, the realization finally dawning that she had felt stifled.
And so she ran.
Eva never knew why she felt the things she felt. Her emotions darted like a school of fish, together, but constantly moving, splitting, breaking apart, and then reforming again.
Life was simply too good. There was too much joy. Too much pleasure. Too much love. Eva had the sense that the ground was about to fall away beneath her feet. And she'd rather jump than fall.
She followed the path beside the river until it opened up on the sea, its endless waves disappearing in a snowy fog. Her footfalls slowed to a halt, and she squinted out into the white stretch of the ocean, her breath billowing in frosty plumes.
There was always something. Something to remind her that grief and death existed in the same moment as love and life. The chilling news of Jewell's death. The anxious look in Fio's eyes. The loneliness behind Lirssa's little girl smile. The weariness in both Lucien and Ali's expressions, a look they both held, but never showed each other. The reserved hope shared between Eless and Connar. And the look that Mac got, the look of loving someone you couldn't hold onto.
And then there was the fortune. From Zoltar. On the nice list, your name slumbers. How'd you like to paint by numbers?
Both she and Mason assumed the message was about the Muse. Any mention of paint jolted fear in Eva's belly, a programmed call and response.
But the truth was, Eva did paint by numbers. That was how she spent her days. Describing the world in numbers.
She totaled shipments, calculated taxes, subtracted losses. She could calculate the area of the Market Square, the Southern Glen, the bed she shared with Mason. She could calculate the dosage of his heart medication, and the rate at which it would stop working. She could write an equation to describe the shape of the snowflakes that fell on her shoulders as she ran away from him, an equation to describe the distance that grew between them with every step, an equation to describe the speed of her flight.
Eva looked out across the ocean, at the constancy of its waves. She could write an equation to describe the infinite rise and fall of those waves. But she couldn't write an equation for the way that the waves changed, the way that each one was unique, and the way they would continue changing, forever. For that she'd need a different kind of infinity. A kind that could not be painted with numbers. A kind that existed only in her heart.