Discriminant analysis
Happy anniversary, ar_drabbles! The first anniversary is traditionally the paper anniversary. And in honor of my co-mod, what goes better with paper than RCT?
Sometimes she felt like she was drowning in a sea of paper. Her desk was overflowing, and receding waves created a beachhead in her bedroom. Each pen which ran out of ink brought them one step closer to the death of civilization. Her hands ached from writing.
She rubbed her knuckles, trying to ease a cramp.
"Let me do that for you."
She didn't need to look up to recognize that voice. She extended her hand as if to shake his and he turned it, massaging the ligaments and tendons.
"You hold your pen too tight. How you survived grading papers all those years…"
She was still reading the papers on her desk, but she spared him a quick look over her glasses. "Kindergarten teachers don't grade many papers."
"Were you really a kindergarten teacher?"
They never talked about the past. It was irrelevant, vaporized in a thermo-nuclear flash. It was dangerous. She could cope with what life had become because she no longer had the burden of being sad in a happy world. "Your handwriting's nothing to shout about either."
"My handwriting's great!"
"Your handwriting is beautiful," she corrected. "But it's not what I'd call legible." He rubbed a sore spot at the base of her thumb and she managed to transform her moan of pleasure into something closer to a derisive snort just in time.
"I'll bet you wish I'd let you put in your computers."
"I do understand that if I'd had time to put networked computers on your ship, none of us would be here."
"Is that I'm sorry or thank you?"
"Let it be both."
He leaned forward, pressed a kiss into the palm of her hand.
"Is that I forgive you or you're welcome?"
"Let it be anything you want it to be, Laura."
Sometimes she felt like she was drowning in a sea of paper. Her desk was overflowing, and receding waves created a beachhead in her bedroom. Each pen which ran out of ink brought them one step closer to the death of civilization. Her hands ached from writing.
She rubbed her knuckles, trying to ease a cramp.
"Let me do that for you."
She didn't need to look up to recognize that voice. She extended her hand as if to shake his and he turned it, massaging the ligaments and tendons.
"You hold your pen too tight. How you survived grading papers all those years…"
She was still reading the papers on her desk, but she spared him a quick look over her glasses. "Kindergarten teachers don't grade many papers."
"Were you really a kindergarten teacher?"
They never talked about the past. It was irrelevant, vaporized in a thermo-nuclear flash. It was dangerous. She could cope with what life had become because she no longer had the burden of being sad in a happy world. "Your handwriting's nothing to shout about either."
"My handwriting's great!"
"Your handwriting is beautiful," she corrected. "But it's not what I'd call legible." He rubbed a sore spot at the base of her thumb and she managed to transform her moan of pleasure into something closer to a derisive snort just in time.
"I'll bet you wish I'd let you put in your computers."
"I do understand that if I'd had time to put networked computers on your ship, none of us would be here."
"Is that I'm sorry or thank you?"
"Let it be both."
He leaned forward, pressed a kiss into the palm of her hand.
"Is that I forgive you or you're welcome?"
"Let it be anything you want it to be, Laura."