[ It says a lot of things about her that Ada manages to sleep in, consistently, in a bed not her own, in someone else's home, even if it's temporarily just a little bit hers... Says a lot of things about whose bed it is, and whose home, too.
But none of those things are spoken aloud. They're written in poetry, occasionally passed in gifts, more often in smaller, greedy touches, in moments so quiet she barely breathes.
Her steps are near silent as she slides out of bed, slides the poem carefully between the box and the flower as if undisturbed at all, as if she didn't read it four times over, each more slowly than the last, and, still clad in nothing but an over-large tee-shirt and little else, roams out in search of her quarry.
Whatever may be occupying him, even if he should notice her approach, she wraps her arms around him from behind and lays her head against his back. Her silence feels revealing, but she doesn't trust herself to speak.
It could be just another afternoon morning, if she believes it hard enough. ]
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But none of those things are spoken aloud. They're written in poetry, occasionally passed in gifts, more often in smaller, greedy touches, in moments so quiet she barely breathes.
Her steps are near silent as she slides out of bed, slides the poem carefully between the box and the flower as if undisturbed at all, as if she didn't read it four times over, each more slowly than the last, and, still clad in nothing but an over-large tee-shirt and little else, roams out in search of her quarry.
Whatever may be occupying him, even if he should notice her approach, she wraps her arms around him from behind and lays her head against his back. Her silence feels revealing, but she doesn't trust herself to speak.
It could be just another
afternoonmorning, if she believes it hard enough. ]