Hard to say what she expected. Pages of neat, unedited script, perhaps, or nothing but thoughtless, clumsy stanzas following some terrible rhyming scheme, something to kill her curiosity and bury it in disappointment's scorched earth. Instead, she holds in her hands a glimpse into his world, and she finds herself reading with a ravenous hunger, the awareness of how little time she has resting, excruciating, in every beat of her heart. Now and again, she sinks into a finished poem, and just as often, she turns a page, tongue bit between her teeth, hoping for another line, a follow-up, only to find that it is not yet finished, and that she will never know the next verse.
The art gives her more pause – men she has not seen, distant friends, perhaps, until she notes the occasional hint at a uniform, puzzling together, then, that he must have had another life indeed. On her own image, she pauses, enthralled as ever by her beauty, and excited, in a way, at knowing he must have stopped to capture it.
She does not notice the waitress' approach nor departure, and only the clearing of his throat forces her to resurface, a finger on a line as though she fears losing it. It cannot have been so long since she began; it was not long enough. The wonder on her face is quite real, until she realises it and means to pull herself together again, the slightest hint of a blush on her cheeks at having been so intimately watched. She had not noticed his looking away any more than she'd noticed the appearance of her drink. "I'm –"
Now it is for her to clear her throat, to gather herself together. "Thank you. I liked the portrait." It feels hollow, though, to only speak of that one thing, when she had sunken far more deeply into all of the rest. Such honesty, however, seems to trouble her, so it takes another moment before she finds something resembling the words for it. It had been a more intimate experience than she has had in quite some time. "I would read it again and again, if it were something I could place on my shelf. You've made me feel –" For a moment, it looks as though she wishes to add something there, but then she stops. He has made her feel quite a few things, in fact, more than she permits herself during the average week.
no subject
The art gives her more pause – men she has not seen, distant friends, perhaps, until she notes the occasional hint at a uniform, puzzling together, then, that he must have had another life indeed. On her own image, she pauses, enthralled as ever by her beauty, and excited, in a way, at knowing he must have stopped to capture it.
She does not notice the waitress' approach nor departure, and only the clearing of his throat forces her to resurface, a finger on a line as though she fears losing it. It cannot have been so long since she began; it was not long enough. The wonder on her face is quite real, until she realises it and means to pull herself together again, the slightest hint of a blush on her cheeks at having been so intimately watched. She had not noticed his looking away any more than she'd noticed the appearance of her drink. "I'm –"
Now it is for her to clear her throat, to gather herself together. "Thank you. I liked the portrait." It feels hollow, though, to only speak of that one thing, when she had sunken far more deeply into all of the rest. Such honesty, however, seems to trouble her, so it takes another moment before she finds something resembling the words for it. It had been a more intimate experience than she has had in quite some time. "I would read it again and again, if it were something I could place on my shelf. You've made me feel –" For a moment, it looks as though she wishes to add something there, but then she stops. He has made her feel quite a few things, in fact, more than she permits herself during the average week.