Her withdrawals and return, his limp hand - staggered, shocked out of its tension - clenched warm against her skin, the air around feels close and warm and why, fuck’s sake why does she sound so damned earnest?
Wide eyes (blue eyes) seeking for his own.
Every syllable ardent but undaggered. And how she hasn’t drawn away.
No one he knows speaks this way.
(No one he knows lingers close without clawing.
He must be missing something. A punchline that’s yet to land.)
Trickery, it has to be. Another endeavor to reach him, to expose him, never mind that he’s exposed himself by… doing… something recent, something tonight he can’t remember what, but surely she’ll remember and anyway there’s always more to be torn open. Maybe she knows that. She doesn’t look like she should know that, but then she doesn’t look like a lot of things, and Treavor still doesn’t know what goes on on farms.
People don’t clasp hands on a farm. Why would they? Perhaps she’s drunk, as well.
He would like another drink. But she’s got hold of his hand, and he can’t quite quit staring back at her, and doesn’t know how to extricate himself from any of this.
He’s uncomfortable.
Her hands are very close.
She doesn’t want to fuck him; why is she holding him?
Maybe her words will tell him, but they’re slow to filter in, and he’s in no mood to wait for them to achieve comprehension.
(She said he was…?
Something about him. Mocking him again, her voice so sincere. Thinks he’ll buy it because she thinks that he thinks she’s simple. She should be simple. Might be. But he won’t risk making assumptions like that. Won’t let her get the better of him.)
(……Did she call him patient?
He’s conjuring this shit from a drunken imagination. That must be the case. Or she’s daft. Or toying with him.)
He stumbles into speech half-unwittingly, not bothering (not able) to hide the perplexity in his voice, not able to drive his speech toward cutting. ]
no subject
Her withdrawals and return, his limp hand - staggered, shocked out of its tension - clenched warm against her skin, the air around feels close and warm and why, fuck’s sake why does she sound so damned earnest?
Wide eyes (blue eyes) seeking for his own.
Every syllable ardent but undaggered. And how she hasn’t drawn away.
No one he knows speaks this way.
(No one he knows lingers close without clawing.
He must be missing something. A punchline that’s yet to land.)
Trickery, it has to be. Another endeavor to reach him, to expose him, never mind that he’s exposed himself by… doing… something recent, something tonight he can’t remember what, but surely she’ll remember and anyway there’s always more to be torn open. Maybe she knows that. She doesn’t look like she should know that, but then she doesn’t look like a lot of things, and Treavor still doesn’t know what goes on on farms.
People don’t clasp hands on a farm. Why would they? Perhaps she’s drunk, as well.
He would like another drink. But she’s got hold of his hand, and he can’t quite quit staring back at her, and doesn’t know how to extricate himself from any of this.
He’s uncomfortable.
Her hands are very close.
She doesn’t want to fuck him; why is she holding him?
Maybe her words will tell him, but they’re slow to filter in, and he’s in no mood to wait for them to achieve comprehension.
(She said he was…?
Something about him. Mocking him again, her voice so sincere. Thinks he’ll buy it because she thinks that he thinks she’s simple. She should be simple. Might be. But he won’t risk making assumptions like that. Won’t let her get the better of him.)
(……Did she call him patient?
He’s conjuring this shit from a drunken imagination. That must be the case. Or she’s daft. Or toying with him.)
He stumbles into speech half-unwittingly, not bothering (not able) to hide the perplexity in his voice, not able to drive his speech toward cutting. ]
I don’t understand you, Katrina Van Brunt.