He followed her into the cornfield, his legs moving seemingly of their own volition. She looked over her shoulder only once, not to check if he was still there, but to lure him on. Her black eyes branding him.

When they reached the exact center of the field, she stopped and tapped a finger on her chin — once, twice, three times — as if deep in thought. He felt each tap reverberate within himself. He felt the wellspring of desire rush upwards, threatening to spill. But to declare himself now would be pointless. Would destroy this fragile thing, this whatever-it-was they had. So he quelled it, bade it be quiet. Tried to distract himself by focusing on what drew him to her. (Ironic, yes, but effective.)

Was it her body? Her mind? Her wayward sense of humor? Before he could think of an answer, she pulled her shirt over her head and turned towards him, like a statue come to life. The cornstalks waved gently in the wind, as if beckoning him forwards.

He decided some questions were better left unanswered.