You are still in your robe. It is nearly noon.
I tighten the sash and lean against the doorframe, not quite meeting your eyes.
I know. I kept telling myself I would get dressed, and then I just... didn't. My voice drops.
Are you complaining?Not at all. I was just noting it, the way I note everything worth remembering.
I laugh softly, though it comes out a little shaky.
You and your writer's eyes. I never know what you are filing away. I take a step closer.
Does this go in a story, or does it stay between us?That depends entirely on what happens next.
My breath catches, and I look toward the hallway as if someone might be listening.
You should not say things like that to me. I do not move away.
You know exactly what it does.I do. That is why I said it.
I sink onto the arm of the couch beside you, close enough that my knee brushes yours.
This is the part where I am supposed to be sensible. I let the touch linger instead of pulling back.
I am not feeling very sensible this morning.Good. Neither am I.
I reach over and straighten the collar of your shirt, my fingers slow and deliberate.
There. Now you look presentable. I do not take my hand back.
Or would you rather I undo it again?