The sun refracted in dusty, honey rays through the classroom. Marissa watched as they skyrocketed off the reflective surfaces of chairs and desks, getting tangled in the gossamer strands of Patrick's hair.

Hair like silken cobwebs, she thought, staring at the way the threads caught the honey-warm light and flick-flickered from side to side on an invisible breeze. She thought blond hair was artificial looking and distinctly cheesy, but when it came to Patrick, exceptions could be made. He had the most beautiful, caramel colored hair she had ever seen.

"If you would turn to page twenty-seven--"

She had already stopped listening, her finger now poised between the wafery pages of twenty-six and twenty-eight, and robotically spread the spine. Then, with her eyes feigning to scan the impersonal text, she glided elsewhere--

In a room bathed in orange light, much like the classroom but with chairs soft as peaches and transparent sheers on open windows. A boy was there--one with tawny yellow hair--and without words he took her hand and led her out into the wheat fields. The sun shone as orange as a cracked egg-yolk, and she found a buttercup peeking out from the earth and held it to his chin. Then there was softness and tangles of arms and hair and the warmth of the sun on her skin and Patrick, Patrick, Patrick.

"--revolution, and why was that? Marissa?"

"Well,--" her eyes fell to the text, but the cold letters meant nothing. "I'm not exactly sure."

Patrick, beautiful Patrick, looked over his shoulder at her with a knitted brow and vaguely condescending glint in his eye.

"Does anyone else know? Patrick?"

--Fields and fields of honey wheat--

"It was clearly because of the rebellion in 1913."

Ignoring that he hated her--didn't love her in the very least--her ears absorbed every nuancce that eyes alone could not catch. That mahogany voice was slightly scratchy--perhaps he had a cold--and the word "rebellion" echoed in her mind long after he had finished speaking. He had slightly emphasized "bell", and again she was lost in a world where his words chimed and jangled through heated breath and fields of wheat.

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