"Wow, what a skill to have," he smiled affectionately. That would be something else, something he would be strangely proud to be credited with. The hand on his arm was warm and enticing, little flashbacks to the previous weekend flicking through his mind.
"Yeah, I am," he nodded about the writing. He always found it difficult to speak about what he was in the process of writing, because often the end product ended up surprising him, the meaning slightly diffent from what he initially intended, the plot edited and edited- but the solid foundations would always be there. He never started writing without the foundations in place. "I started it before I came here, in Spain, and it's about Spain, really. Except I was avoiding my own rule, that you can't really write about a place until you leave it, and gain perspective," he admitted. "I would say it's about civil war, but that's not entirely true, it's just a setting. It's about the people, more than anything, and their attitudes and struggles. How you balance your ideology with reality, how far you'd be willing to go to do what you think is right, is it okay to committ terrible acts if they're for the greater good-" he was telling her. "Just sort of light poolside reading for holidaymakers, really," he added, with a bit of a laugh.
And there she was again, using the word 'we' over and over, that she was going to do this with him. It was exciting. He couldn't stop smiling. "You're going to go mad with my incessant questioning," he told her. "You're..." he sighed, not saying what she was. "Thank you. I'll try not to be a terrible student."
She called him cute, and he laughed because it wasn't a word that was normally used to describe him. "Oh, no- I don't want to see, I don't even want to imagine," he groaned at the thought of it. "I know. It makes me feel a right bore saying it, but you're right. Never compares to the book," he agreed.
It was strange how different their lives were, but it kept things interesting. His life at 18 was worlds away from hers, and yet he felt that he knew her so intimately. It was amazing.
"Oh, God, let's think..." he took another bite while he considered the possible stories. And then he remember. "Ah, well, I once stole a urinal from a bar, of all things. It is now a garden fountain," he told her, only once the words were out did he realise how fucking insane it sounded.