Her dates have ended in lavish gifts and in rides in luxury cars, in bars ordinary people do not even know exist and restaurants that serve gold-dappled cakes to their gold-dappled guests. Exceptions were found in hours with her brother, where the word date alone is treated like poison by her, and eyes may never be on them at all. And yet between all this, she finds herself in an art gallery with a man she wishes to know, and while the art does not touch her, she finds herself smiling an honest, genuine smile more often than on plenty of those other dates combined.
Afterwards, she drops by the gathering she meant to neglect, an appearance for appearance' sake, has a glass of wine and no patience for others, and when she gets home, his text has arrived. She reads it in her chaise longue, and then reads it twice more with her heart pattering like a trapped bird. Her own reply is succinct, but honest: she, too, had a lovely time, and she, too, cannot wait to see him for dinner.
It isn't silence, after that, she seems to make a habit of texting him, albeit those messages tend to be inquisitive, if inconsequential. Is he well, she asks on one day. She has a complaint to be raised over a pile of documents her lessons require on another. To agree on dates and times for their next rendezvous, she calls him with little warning, preferring his voice to his, she is loathe to admit it, slow typing.
For the first time in her romantic life, she is almost not late. For the occasion, she has chosen a dress that is neither casual, nor too formal to be beyond any point of comfort, in a deep green that is meant to bring out her eyes – something about him strikes her as a man who prefers the shades of the forest to those of blood. The wildflowers imply she might have been right, but there isn't immediate room for so calculating a thought when she receives them with a kiss to his cheek. She is tender with them where she would normally neglect to pay any attentions to the bouquets she receives.
"It has been a long time since I enjoyed a date this much," she tells him, shocked by her own honesty and drunk – not on the glass of wine she has been nursing, paired perfectly with her food – on his company. Her eyes wander to her flowers. "Say, do you know how to press flowers?"
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timeasmymeasure
<3!!!
Date: 2021-11-20 11:01 pm (UTC)Afterwards, she drops by the gathering she meant to neglect, an appearance for appearance' sake, has a glass of wine and no patience for others, and when she gets home, his text has arrived. She reads it in her chaise longue, and then reads it twice more with her heart pattering like a trapped bird. Her own reply is succinct, but honest: she, too, had a lovely time, and she, too, cannot wait to see him for dinner.
It isn't silence, after that, she seems to make a habit of texting him, albeit those messages tend to be inquisitive, if inconsequential. Is he well, she asks on one day. She has a complaint to be raised over a pile of documents her lessons require on another. To agree on dates and times for their next rendezvous, she calls him with little warning, preferring his voice to his, she is loathe to admit it, slow typing.
For the first time in her romantic life, she is almost not late. For the occasion, she has chosen a dress that is neither casual, nor too formal to be beyond any point of comfort, in a deep green that is meant to bring out her eyes – something about him strikes her as a man who prefers the shades of the forest to those of blood. The wildflowers imply she might have been right, but there isn't immediate room for so calculating a thought when she receives them with a kiss to his cheek. She is tender with them where she would normally neglect to pay any attentions to the bouquets she receives.
"It has been a long time since I enjoyed a date this much," she tells him, shocked by her own honesty and drunk – not on the glass of wine she has been nursing, paired perfectly with her food – on his company. Her eyes wander to her flowers. "Say, do you know how to press flowers?"