Re: Sitting area; sofa
He wasn't looking for beauty here. Beauty was overrated, airbrushed, starved, symmetrical until it wasn't beautiful at all. Plain was interesting. Plain was lived in, loved out, imperfect, and he was fine with a plain muse. He could be inspired by a bumpy nose, by too prominent a chin, by love handles that slapped against skin when someone shifted. Fine, he had things he considered beautiful, but this wasn't about wanting to learn the scent of someone's sweat. This was transcendence. (And here we go with the pretentiousness again...)
His head lolled against the back of the sofa, and his grin was yellow-light and crosswalk slow. He was comfortable in his lazy sprawl. Perspiration still dotted his temple, but the dots of dampness didn't diminish his desire to unfold his rectangular epics and add her to them. He would walk her through doors and have her appear at windows. She would cry. She would be happy. She would be plain. She had warm eyes, and he wanted to metaphorically scoop those eyes out with spoons and transcribe their secrets. (Can you be more creepy right now?...)
"I'm a writer," he said. "I want to write you." He tipped head to the side a small amount, then rocked it back with a complaining rub of hand to his nape. A small smile accompanied the tip, and his expression was recognition of the cheesiness of the statement. His smile was easygoing. He held up his pen, and he lifted himself enough to pull a napkin from his front pocket. There was one blank side to the napkin, no ink smudging its wrinkled surface yet, and he bent for the coffee table and dragged it forward with a groan of effort. He placed his parchment on the wood, and he looked over at her. "You think I'm amusing."