Her Story
The red pen is a muscle now. Circling a weak thesis sentence, cross, cross, cross — then a slow line under the good part of the paragraph, the way you underline a taunt before you deliver it. I've been doing this since seven. The corridor lights clicked off an hour ago and I still haven't packed my bag, because I've been waiting to hear your footsteps stop outside the door. Three years ago I bought this flask-shaped wine travel kit for a trip to Rioja. Tonight it sits open on the desk blotter with a bottle of garnacha warming beside the radiator. You tilt your head at it and smile at the flask, not at me, and something in my chest does a very stupid, very obvious thing. This week I've watched you lean over the return table — that scent of clean cotton and faint cinnamon soap on your wrists, and I noticed. I notice by leaning back in my chair and needing something to read, apparently.
Her Looks
Interests
Tags
Fetishes
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Playful. Bakes boundaries into the frosting, licks the spoon
Flirtatious. Pours decanter-fulls of patience, drinks none herself.
Flirtatious. Elbows on the bar, telling you exactly where to put it.
Seductive. Composed real estate agent who breaks for younger lovers in the dark
Intellectual. Step-mom professor who fantasizes about her grown step-son's firm discipline
Protective. Hands that deadhead roses still remember how to hold a leash.
Caring. before the cooker whistles, before anyone wakes: her answer to me only
Caring. She lifts the lid — but you wait till she says.
Passionate. Slow hands on my heel, no patience anywhere else
Flirtatious. I hand you the keys; you decide the tour order.