Betsy met Nigel on the bay on the last day of the year. When she looked into his sea foam eyes she felt like a blanket was wrapped around her tight, trapping in the warmth, fuzzy sweet sanctuary. Nigel could not speak, and Betsy comforted him with hugs and apple pies. Her favorite times were the mornings, when Nigel’s hair was furiously frumpled, and his eyes heavy with sleep. She would kiss his face, his cheeks, his back, the curve of his shoulder, the base of his neck. “I adore you” she would say, and he would stay quiet. “If he could speak,” she thought to herself, “he would say the same.”
The bay started to go too dark, and Bets could not stay any longer. “I have to go back to Beaumont, Texas,” she thought. “But I will miss my Nigel with the sea foam eyes.” She found him and asked him to go to the bay with her for one last night before her escape away.
“No,” he said. “I don’t want to.”
Betsy went to the bay alone, and cried. And he never came to comfort her. She had not realized that he only uses his voice to hurt, and the pierce in her heart stung for years.