Re: log: dylan & max
"Massachusetts," he told her with no sense of superiority in actually knowing that. "Thoreau used to write boring shit there."
He didn't mind her leaning against him, the weight was a warm comfort. Contact that wasn't intimate enough to startle him or set him speculating on what came next. He always used to overthink things, and he was trying not to do that anymore, but who knows how long he'd hold out. He was already so much more like the man he used to be in the desert, and less like the void they'd tried to make him in the last door. Maybe he'd eventually go back to being a complete asshole too, but he couldn't worry about it right now. Old things might have even been preferable, because that meant that he could heal anything. Maybe thats what this hotel was trying to teach them all, who knows.
There was intimacy in the booth, despite it being a well lit, quick eating spot. A couple of people stood up at the counter, placing togo orders, but they were the only ones sitting down. The only ones with nowhere to go, or nowhere else they really wanted to go right now. He reached up and touched her hair, letting it fall mousy brown against his fingers. He counted the strands.
"We should go one day, when its warm... to the beach." The server walked up then and desposited their food on the table. The plates were actually red plastic baskets. Checkered wax paper beaded with grease. Dylan consciously lowered his hand from idly inspecting the ends of her hair.