Miss Holly Golightly. Traveling. (annabelleec) wrote,
Miss Holly Golightly. Traveling.

As we sat having dinner I couldn't help but let my hand linger near hers on the table, if not to touch it, then at least to feel its warmth, which would travel from my fingertips up my arm and into my chest: filling it, spreading in waves, choking me.  As I dug into my meal I watched her deal with hers.  She put each piece of food into her mouth and seemed to dissolve with pleasure.  I hadn't realized that so much delight could be had from eating a crepe or drinking a cup of coffeem, which was hardly better than mediocre.  Maybe this was just the quality that I saw in her that made me forget everything and everyone else: her amazing and somewhat childish ability to live life to the fullest, to enjoy all aspects of it, to give into it and love it.  Her eyes sparkled with delight over her cup of coffee and I couldn't discern whether the delight was for the beverage itself or the company she was having it in.  I wanted to think that I had caused at least a part of that joy.  

During the meal she chattered happily and I found myself getting distracted by the shape of her moist lips, by the little lines that had begun to cut into her flesh around the eyes and were all the more apparent when she smiled, by the way her fingers caressed the water glass in front of her, as she wiped off the condensation.  Just yesterday I had told her that I had never been in love despite having had numerous girlfriends.  And today my head was already swimming as I tried to have my dinner, maintain the conversation with her and mentally caress her naked shoulders.  Just yesterday she was yet another girl with a pretty face and soft lips, if only a little cockier than others.  "Give me a month" she told me playfully when I declared that I did not fall in love as a rule.  Apparently, she had underestimated herself or maybe tried to be humble.  Either way, I was struggling with the conversation as my mind wandered from her shiny auburn hair piled carelessly on top of her head in a disordered bun as a consequence of the intolerable heat in the city, to her protruding collar bone, which did a good job disguising her none-too-feminine eating habits, to her angular shoulders, maybe a little too broad, that made her look stronger and more assertive than she really was (little girl!), to her well-formed arms that now glistened with sweat in the crooks of her elbows, to her fingers, which held a cigarette so delicately.  Despite getting carried away by the dreams of planting gentle kisses from her nape to the tips of her fingers I dared not even imagine any more of her than she provided to me willingly.  As if my imagination was not a match for her perfection. 

I wondered if it were just a game to her: a bored kitten batting around a mouse before making him her lunch.  Had this kitten been bored?  Had I unwittingly become the mouse?  Had she maybe been ticked off by my declaration against love and wanted to prove me wrong?  I wanted to think that there was something more to it than that.  That maybe my presense was one of the reasons she was smiling at dinner tonight.  Maybe my hand brushing against hers as I reached for the pitcher of water cause at least a small part of that joy, which was reflected on her face.
Tags: scribbles, the date book
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