And so nature's sincerity pelted its plucked posies, spooned the cords of an old God's heartroof with its petals, playing a sad diddy akin to that of a broken ukulele being swiped by ivy vines...
You can look but you can't touch, that was the golden rule of etiquette invented by a man, somewhere along the high-wire of morally stained history (like virginmilk spilled on the devil's black floorboards.), who had desires the size of flames instead of bonfires -- desires easily controlled and thus, not true desires at all -- and he'd fucked them all over by making it across instead of plummeting like a failed acrobat with botched equilibrium. Thanks wind sheer, for not being a pal. She was a botanical garden of colorful earthly delights and the mystery of seafoam at the corner of a murmuring river's mouth. Why the fuck else would he have done it? Because he just did shit like this all the time? The King of Gods, folding his arms underneath his actually quite impressive muscular brawn, bore down on all the things she'd said with only the intensity of his gaze, and probably ushered in and out several hundred different scenarios in which he grabbed her and kissed her again. Because who wouldn't want to? She tasted like chocolate cake and giggling.
That's why he tightened his intersection there, circling his fingers around the rock terrain of the killing fields of his biceps. Zeus imagined it was the neck of his father, when he'd ...
"That's nothing for you to be sorry about, Evan." because whose fault was it that he was married? Rhetorical. "I've never chased a girl out of a cafe to say I'm sorry." he'd admitted. "I feel like I know you or something, and ..." uncurling his arms he waved off the rest of the sentence as if erasing the chalk from the thoughtboard. "I'll walk you home."