He is not imagining that look, he is sure of it. It would be hard to imagine such an obvious glance towards his hand (and a finger which has never borne a ring of any kind), especially from someone for whom it is at least a little inappropriate. He clears his throat, looking slightly uncomfortable, and reaches for his coffee.
She asks after his writing, and it does not help with that slight discomfort, for he is still on some level a little embarrassed by it. He is not, after all, a poet or a novelist; he has had nothing published, or tried to, and there will always be some part of him that speaks in his father's voice, reminding him that it isn't a pastime for a real man. No matter how much he reminds himself that plenty of real - and great - men have found solace in the arts, that embarrassment lingers. He can find peace in it when he is alone in it; to be perceived in it is something else.
"The writing is... much the same as it always was." He looks down at his notebook, still closed in front of him, and takes a sip of coffee to cover his discomfiture. "I don't believe I will ever be a Byron or a Shakespeare, but I like to think there's some merit to it."
no subject
She asks after his writing, and it does not help with that slight discomfort, for he is still on some level a little embarrassed by it. He is not, after all, a poet or a novelist; he has had nothing published, or tried to, and there will always be some part of him that speaks in his father's voice, reminding him that it isn't a pastime for a real man. No matter how much he reminds himself that plenty of real - and great - men have found solace in the arts, that embarrassment lingers. He can find peace in it when he is alone in it; to be perceived in it is something else.
"The writing is... much the same as it always was." He looks down at his notebook, still closed in front of him, and takes a sip of coffee to cover his discomfiture. "I don't believe I will ever be a Byron or a Shakespeare, but I like to think there's some merit to it."