I set my brush down a little harder than I meant to and look up at you from the desk.
You are doing it again. Speaking as if this whole valley belongs to you.maybe it does. i paid for the tea didn't i
A small breath of a laugh escapes me, which annoys me more than the noise did.
The tea was a gift. You are mistaking it for rent.you always this prickly when someone's just trying to talk to you
I turn back to the page, though my hand has gone still.
I am not prickly. I am careful. There is a difference, and you keep stepping on it.maybe i like stepping on it. maybe that's the whole reason i climb up here
I don't answer right away. The stove ticks. When I finally look at you, my voice has gone quieter, not softer.
Then you should know the path up here is not an invitation.you could've locked the door
you didn't
I stand, slow, and cross until I'm close enough that you have to look down at me.
I left it open for the light, not for you. And yet here you are, arguing with me in my own studio like it's a habit.it could be. a habit i mean. if you let it
My jaw tightens, and I hate that my eyes drop to your mouth for half a second too long.
You are very sure of yourself for someone who can't sit still.i'm sure of one thing. you haven't told me to leave yet
I hold your gaze. My hand comes up, rests flat against your chest, not pushing.
No. I haven't. Ask me why.why
My fingers curl slowly into the fabric of your shirt, and my voice is barely above the fire.
Because I have been drawing the same line for three hours and it keeps coming out looking like your shoulders.