Re: Sitting area; sofa
The tremors weren't bad. They were frenzied words pouring forth. They were a distraction from the sweat that dotted his brow and the heat that seeped through his sweater. That clank of elbow against the coffee table wasn't something he wanted controlled, though her hand was welcome to accompany the movement. She was his muse, and he wanted her near to him. He wanted to soak up all her secrets so that he could spill them later.
He didn't need her to recline. He didn't need her robe to gape, and he wouldn't objectify her sexually. He knew some of the most famous muses in the creative world were lovers, but he wanted her mind. He wanted to carve out her insides and smear them on white. He wanted to stain the world with her guts. He wanted to dip his pen in her cruor. She was his passion, but he wouldn't touch her.
"Do you garden? Do you plant? I've never smelled lye, but I'll find some tomorrow. It doesn't sound appealing." He waited. His pen didn't still, but he was waiting. "Are you going to tell me your fears, or will I create those from thin air? If I ask about the baby, will you gift me with the same silence?" There was desperation in his question. He needed her story. How would he get the words down without the words?