(no subject)
Tell us about a time when you shared a drink.
The room is illuminated by a slow glow from the street lamps. There is a crack in the curtain that that lets in the city glow. He stretches out on the bed with the forever dip in the center where he lays. Her feet are silent on the floor, avoiding the squeaky boards with bare feet, bare legs, bare torso. She offers him the glass of water from the bathroom tap, crying with wet, it drips on his arm and chest before he greedily takes it down. When he kisses her his lips are cold and wet from the glass.
Mornings are quiet. No talking before the coffee, it's an unspoken rule, no one talks in the morning. Rumpled, sleep coated, foggy from pillows, sheets. Her hand in his, they take the familiar sidewalk to the familiar coffee shop with the familiar clients and girls behind the counter who smile at the familiar customers. They take their breakfast, their coffee, his news back to the front porch and sit. And wake up with caffeine, with news print, with white cat. Who purrs and purrs, and rolls on her back for belly rubs.
In their expanded kitchen with the missing wall they enjoy a beer after dinner. The back door is open, the air is off and the breeze that blows across the room is nice and easy. It's an easy sort of night but most nights are, they aren't often loud and uneasy on any night, let alone nights that he is off. He is fiddling with something, sometimes his fingers catch her attention, pulling them them from what she's reading. He barely looks up, he is on task, focused. He takes another drink from his empty bottle, it's the second time he's done that and it makes her smile.
The room is illuminated by a slow glow from the street lamps. There is a crack in the curtain that that lets in the city glow. He stretches out on the bed with the forever dip in the center where he lays. Her feet are silent on the floor, avoiding the squeaky boards with bare feet, bare legs, bare torso. She offers him the glass of water from the bathroom tap, crying with wet, it drips on his arm and chest before he greedily takes it down. When he kisses her his lips are cold and wet from the glass.
Mornings are quiet. No talking before the coffee, it's an unspoken rule, no one talks in the morning. Rumpled, sleep coated, foggy from pillows, sheets. Her hand in his, they take the familiar sidewalk to the familiar coffee shop with the familiar clients and girls behind the counter who smile at the familiar customers. They take their breakfast, their coffee, his news back to the front porch and sit. And wake up with caffeine, with news print, with white cat. Who purrs and purrs, and rolls on her back for belly rubs.
In their expanded kitchen with the missing wall they enjoy a beer after dinner. The back door is open, the air is off and the breeze that blows across the room is nice and easy. It's an easy sort of night but most nights are, they aren't often loud and uneasy on any night, let alone nights that he is off. He is fiddling with something, sometimes his fingers catch her attention, pulling them them from what she's reading. He barely looks up, he is on task, focused. He takes another drink from his empty bottle, it's the second time he's done that and it makes her smile.