She was turning from solid and becoming liquid.
On the driest, most temperate of days, when the sun was high and the air fresh, she would touch her book or her hairbrush or her phone, and find that liquid traces were left behind, as if the flesh of her fingertips were melting. The pages of the book would absorb her, the handle of the hairbrush would shed drops of water as it snagged in her hair, and beads of her liquid essence would form like amalgamating mercury on the screen of the phone as she sent him a text. When she climbed the stairs, she would experience the discomforting and yet strangely liberating sensation that she might fall apart at any moment. The bannister where she had clutched at it would be wet. In the shower she felt herself merging with the water, succumbing to the mind-numbing euphoria of joining with something greater than herself, till in panic she drew herself back into solid form for fear of being swirled away down the plughole.
The day came when she could no longer hold back her liquidity. It happened as she ran through the woods and down the tunnel of the holloway. She felt herself turning magically into a stream of canon-shot water, gushing at speed along the tunnel’s length, and in those moments, she would have willingly lost her shape and form forever, for the joy of being channelled and tidal and supported and unstoppable. At the run’s end, she found her usual form again, and with it was born the realisation that she could shape-shift all she liked and yet remain solid.
Experimenting, unthinking, she let herself be taken by the drink, taken into the heart of the moment, and there she flowed like crystalline spirits of blue and gold and green onto rocks of ice so cold they were hot. That time it had been a little harder to reconvene her faculties. She knew there was one thing for which her liquidity was made most of all. So she took his hand and let herself be led her up the stairs. In the heat of the top room, he licked her wetness from his own fingers, and then from hers. It was under his dry, soft, tangible fingertips that she turned completely to liquid, and all she wanted in those moments was to flow ceaselessly over the man loving her, and then better yet, to be drunk down whole by his thirsty, lapping tongue.
Afterwards, in his arms, she felt as contained without him as she would have within him; for he was the vessel she had long been looking for, the glass or gourd or wineskin to hold all of her, whenever she needed to be so cupped, drunk, and shaped anew.