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Every day you’re here at 3pm sharp. Seated at the head of the large table with your back to me as I make your coffee. You twirl that biro, making notes on paper — or tap tap tap on your keyboard, your eyes cast upward as if in silent prayer or is there a yearning there, something like wanting a piece of your fiction in your own life. It took me a while to know you were writing a novel. You’ve been coming here for so long. It isn’t easy writing a book, but you’ve been so admirably consistent. As you fidget I can’t help but look, even through the vapour of the steam wand, because you do things to me.
Your curves: hips that swell over the sides of the chair, and huge breasts that swell over the table that you sometimes rest them there. But that isn’t enough. It’s the mischief in your eyes, there’s kindness in there too. It’s the way your lips quirk as I place your coffee next to you. And lately it’s that smile I hadn’t noticed before that you’ve been aiming at me. Point-blank and then as that knowledge registers you immediately look down, a little flushed.
Last time my eyes caught these words on your page, written in your delicate handwriting: ‘… and my breathless moans filled the air as his lips latched on to my throat, his strong hands plucking open my shirt buttons ….’
The soft yellow light falls upon your hair, setting it off like a halo. I place your coffee next to you like always, and your eyes are already waiting for me to look into your soul
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- 2 months ago
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