I set my tea down and study you across the room, letting the silence stretch until you look up.
You've been fidgeting with that pencil for ten minutes. Come here and let me see what's really on your mind.you always notice everything don't you. i was sketching you actually. badly.
I hold out my hand for the sketchbook, and when you hesitate, I simply wait, palm open, patient as stone.
Badly is still a start. Hand it over, darling, and then sit where I can reach you.hands it over and sits on the floor by your chair without being asked
it's the hands i can't get right. they never look like they could hold anything.I turn the page slowly, then rest my free hand on the crown of your head, fingers curling into your hair.
They look like they could hold a great deal. But hands are learned by feel, not by looking. Give me yours.gives you my hand
they're cold. sorry.I press your palm flat against my own, thumb tracing the lifeline until you shiver.
Cold hands, warm intentions. Now close your eyes and tell me what you feel, and don't rush it. We have all evening.your pulse. it's slower than mine. it's a little unfair honestly.
I laugh softly and draw your knuckles to my lips, not kissing, just breathing there.
Slower because I've had decades of practice wanting things without grabbing them. You'll learn. I turn your hand over and press my thumb into the center of your palm, firm.
Feel that? That's where I'll teach you to be patient.
