Free Seventh Wonder by Renae Kelleigh

over the rim.
    “Looking at me...like that.”
    “Do I make you uncomfortable?”
    She wrapped both hands around her mug and grinned covertly into her tea. “No,” she replied softly. “I don’t mind it.”
    “Good,” said John. He sat back and crossed an ankle over his knee. “Because I plan on doing it a lot.” His tone was no different than it would have been if he’d just announced his intention of reading the newspaper or checking the mail. No-nonsense. Matter-of-fact. Meg pursed her lips to one side in an effort to conceal her smile.
    She drew her legs up to rest her heels at the chair’s edge, tugging on John’s shirt to cover her knees. “What are these?” she asked, nodding to a stack of oblong, rectangular cartons perched atop another of his sketchbooks.
    He picked the topmost box and slid off its lid. “Photographs,” he replied, tipping the box to show her the row of 35 millimeter slides. “I used to draw from memory, but I found I was missing important details, like the angle of the sun or the shapes of certain shadows. These help me remember.”
    “Do you mind?” asked Meg, pointing as she reached for the box.
    “Not at all.” He slid the box across the table, then crossed the room to fetch a handheld viewer from the writing desk by the window.
    “Are they in any particular order?” she asked.
    “It doesn’t matter,” he replied dismissively. “As long as they end up in the same box.”
    He handed her the viewer and crouched behind her with one hand clutching the table on either side of her chair. Meg plucked out a slide from the middle of the row and popped it in the viewer. A photo of a turquoise waterfall surrounded by cliffs the color of crumbling brick flashed on the small screen.
    “God, that’s beautiful,” she whispered. Twisting in her seat, she was taken aback by the proximity of John’s face to her own. “Where was this taken?” she asked.
    “That’s Mooney Falls,” he said. “It’s about an eight mile hike down from the western rim, in Havasupai.” He picked another slide from the box and held it up to the light before handing it to her. Meg switched the slides and pressed the button to illuminate an image of another waterfall.
    “That one is Beaver Falls,” he said. Pointing to one bench of the multitier falls, he added, “These are travertine pools. It’s this kind of limestone that forms when calcium carbonate mineralizes rapidly in the water.” He scratched the stubble on his cheek. “It’s pretty amazing, actually, because it means the creek is constantly changing. New formations are always being created, and it continually changes the flow of the water.”
    Meg looked up at him.
    “What?” John asked, catching the smile that touched her lips.
    She gave a minute shake of her head. “Show me more.”
    * * *
    She wanted him to kiss her again.
    They’d spent the last hour poring over photos and sketches. (John came more alive as he spoke - his sweeping gestures and the swinging cadence of his deep voice reminded Meg of a cartoon. Kaibab limestone, Hermit shale, Coconino sandstone: these were the words he spouted as he wove an elaborate tale of the canyon’s natural history. Never before had Meg found rocks so terribly captivating. Furthermore, she was surprised to find that her teacher’s exceptional attractiveness had remarkably little to do with her newfound fascination.)
    He’d touched her as he talked. A squeeze of her hand, the graze of a knuckle against her cheek. But a serious dearth of kissing. They were lounging on his bed (on his bed!) with papers and slides scattered across the comforter: John stretched out on his side, Meg positioned cross-legged across from him.
    “Are you hungry?”
    John’s question interrupted her prurient thoughts.
    “Yes, come to think of it.” She took hold of his arm, felt powerful with the way it tensed from her touch. She lifted his wrist to inspect the face of his watch: five past seven. The rain had