Re: Sitting area; sofa
The writer didn't care about his skin. Personal appearance took backseat to his need to create. He didn't recall the second before he downed the drink that left him inspired, but he remembered there had been that moment. Neither moment made him care about what he lathered up with. He didn't care about PETA either. Those were just inconsequential words, small talk without weight. He looked down at the touch to the back of his hand. "Skin does fine without anything special," he said in typical male fashion. A metrosexual our writer was not.
He was too hot beneath the sweater, and he only drew away if any part of her strayed too close to his opposite side. Otherwise, he stayed there, sweating through thick fabric and red sheening his skin. "Why were you trapped? Did something happen when you were young?" It sounded young to him. It could explain the baby and the gas stations. Teenage runaway, maybe. "Words can be used in ignorance or malice, can't they?" He had his opinions, but his opinions weren't the ones that mattered in the story.
"Stories are meant to be left behind. They're for other people," he told her. (That explains why we're dealing with a wannabe here...)
He wasn't wistful about the table. He leaned his head back against the sofa, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. He was losing steam, but the desire to finish the story was still stronger than any physical limitations. "What happened to the baby's father?"