Re: Sitting area; sofa
Oh, but he intrigued her. For as much as he begged and pleaded to have a story from her, she wanted to know why from him. Of all the other lives spending the night in the house on the lake, what made him cut his puppet strings on the couch next to her? She didn't know the predicament of tidal thoughts that wouldn't give him a moment of peace, but the desperation was there in the list of all the things he wanted to know.
And the masquerade woman of the evening, the one who would be a storied memory when the sun rose, she did want her nothing tale to be told. The warmth in her eyes deepened to interest, and her own relaxed posture tensed into tighter lines as she shifted her body to face him more (retucking that robe so that barely an inch of skin showed).
Words and thoughts spilled like dark wine to stain all those scraps of napkins that he hoarded in his pockets. "Tonight was something I wanted. Or thought I did. You're turning it back around though." And single words? She could provide those too. "Peace. Lost." She was suddenly staring at him, leaning her shoulders forward. "Tilled soil. Lye soap." She closed her eyes, shuttering her gaze as she inhaled deeply, like she was experiencing all the scents she named off. Her voice slid downhill into a murmur. "Salt and damp wool. Mold over wood... People. Diesel fuel and bathroom air freshener. Baby wipes."