Re: Sitting area; sofa
If she was being truthful with herself, and she did try to be, she wasn't anticipating a companion for the evening. There had already been others that had passed her by. Too plain in her over-large white robe to attract any attention. And oh, wasn't that the glorious, wonderful point of it all? That there wasn't a thing that was special about her.
Perhaps, at times, those past-times when she was more than the plain woman on the sofa, perhaps once she had been someone's muse. Or subject. Perhaps somewhere out there were pictures of her, odes written, verses penned. (None that she would admit to, even outside of the lakehouse.) Tonight, though? Tonight there was none of that. She wasn't Helen, and cities wouldn't fall at the feet of her beauty.
But the man found her nonetheless. And sat next to her. And smiled. So she smiled back. And it was a pretty smile, pleasant. Her eyes went warm with it and her cheeks still flushed from the heat of her shower and the fire nearby. Her expression was open and welcoming, and perhaps held a tinge of amusement for the man in the dark sweater and jeans, the way his body was a string-cut puppet falling onto the couch.