[writing] hush. a girl can dream.
I inhale and slide a look off to where the sister of my heart, my better half is smiling too cheekily. Yes, she is too pleased with herself. I will get back at her for this, I think, but I take your offered hand and smooth each of your fingers the way I might open the petals of a flower.
I can feel your interested gaze on the top of my head - there, where a line parts the strands, dividing it the way a man once divided the world to please two nations. I do not smile, do not frown, my eyes are the only things I need as I stretch the skin of your palm, as if straightening some crumpled up letter.
You are all so quiet, so interested in this that I am tempted to make a show of it all. I know that you are not the least bit the type to believe that the lines on your hand will tell me and you and them what is in store for you in the future. No matter, I inhale, one will believe what one believes. I for one believe that there are mysteries to be found in the body, why else would we all be made in similar form but still remain distinctly different from each other.
"Well?" You prompt and your fingers curl a little, telling me in no complex terms that you are impatient and want to take this opportunity to take my smaller hand in your own.
I test your thumb quickly and quirk a brow, let you go and once more establish the ocean of air that belongs over the table between you and me.
"You're a terrible liar."
"But I am a theatre actor."
I laugh and roll my eyes. "Just because you play a part does not make you a good liar. Just like fiction being a beautiful lie does not make liars out of writers."
:)
I can feel your interested gaze on the top of my head - there, where a line parts the strands, dividing it the way a man once divided the world to please two nations. I do not smile, do not frown, my eyes are the only things I need as I stretch the skin of your palm, as if straightening some crumpled up letter.
You are all so quiet, so interested in this that I am tempted to make a show of it all. I know that you are not the least bit the type to believe that the lines on your hand will tell me and you and them what is in store for you in the future. No matter, I inhale, one will believe what one believes. I for one believe that there are mysteries to be found in the body, why else would we all be made in similar form but still remain distinctly different from each other.
"Well?" You prompt and your fingers curl a little, telling me in no complex terms that you are impatient and want to take this opportunity to take my smaller hand in your own.
I test your thumb quickly and quirk a brow, let you go and once more establish the ocean of air that belongs over the table between you and me.
"You're a terrible liar."
"But I am a theatre actor."
I laugh and roll my eyes. "Just because you play a part does not make you a good liar. Just like fiction being a beautiful lie does not make liars out of writers."
:)