Re: Quicklog: Mary M and Dylan M
[Dylan, most of the time cared about the cheese, the stove. Still cared about the stove, because bacon spat and grease could set alight and there was a steady track of thought about what was on and what wasn't, what could take a little time out and what couldn't.
There was a lot to learn in bleacher-skipping days Dylan hadn't shown up for. A lot to learn that you got master-classes in sitting in cars up on the Point, figuring out shit like this with steamed up windows. He didn't know girls' voices could skip several notes downward, like dragging fingers through water and he didn't know why it felt a little like hooking the same fingers into his belt loops and tugging.
The thing was, Dylan was single-track mind and a lot of thinking first and M was bundled up in fairytale lands where people tried to murder you for existing, forests before you dug underneath to find tequila in look-outs. There was a lot there. A lot M needed, and a lot M didn't, and all of that was first in line for single-track thinking. The track had skipped, and her cheeks warmed and Dylan's thumb swiped down her cheekbone, chasing pink stain there.
There was a heartbeat moment, one he didn't know how to feel the way through until she kissed him, curled into the space and yanked until the kitchen air was warm against skin as his shirt pulled away from his body toward her. Dylan took orders, somewhere that wasn't the kitchen. Took direction real well. He slid the palm of his hand along the dip-curve of her waist over the froofy shirt to tug her closer and he kissed her slow and with the kind of careful attention to detail that said maybe there wasn't a lot of experience to back this shit up.]