(no subject)
I wrote another drabble, but 100 words just didn't cut it so I wrote 200 more. Is is still a drabble if it's 300 words? Is it now officially a ficlet? I don't know how to classify these things. I'm sure it doesn't really matter. At least I'm writing, right?
Déjà Vu or Not Quite A Handshake, G
The day they meet, Kara literally runs into him; not paying attention, her focus is on a term paper she hasn’t written and the blank canvas at home.
His hands steady her and she thinks, there you are.
He might be apologizing, despite the fact that she ran into him, but Kara’s not listening. He’s stopped holding her; she’s wondering if it’s possible to miss a complete stranger. If only he’d shut up so she could think! Think of something other than the oddly familiar urge to hit him… or kiss him.
Instead, she offers him her hand. “I’m Kara.”
She might have startled him, obviously had, if the abrupt end to his litany of apologizes was any indication. There’s an almost shell-shocked expression written across his face and Kara can’t help but chuckled.
Her hand is hovering awkwardly in the space between their bodies. For a moment she drops his gaze to look at it. Her skin is ink-stained from grading too many freshman Art History papers and chapped from the winter air. Well, that and her own aversion to wearing gloves.
Their eyes meet once more; her teeth reacquaint themselves with her bottom lip. She curls the fingers of her extended hand back towards her palm.
He shakes his head as if waking from a daze and grabs at the retreating digits, stopping her hand before she can drop it back to her side. He holds her fingers in his cupped palm, drawing them back towards his chest; it’s not quite a handshake. She doesn’t quite care.
“Lee…” he says softly. A shiver spikes at the nape of her neck; his tone suggests there’s more he’d like to say. Neither of them speaks.
He’s still holding her hand. It’s still not a handshake. She still doesn’t care.
Déjà Vu or Not Quite A Handshake, G
The day they meet, Kara literally runs into him; not paying attention, her focus is on a term paper she hasn’t written and the blank canvas at home.
His hands steady her and she thinks, there you are.
He might be apologizing, despite the fact that she ran into him, but Kara’s not listening. He’s stopped holding her; she’s wondering if it’s possible to miss a complete stranger. If only he’d shut up so she could think! Think of something other than the oddly familiar urge to hit him… or kiss him.
Instead, she offers him her hand. “I’m Kara.”
She might have startled him, obviously had, if the abrupt end to his litany of apologizes was any indication. There’s an almost shell-shocked expression written across his face and Kara can’t help but chuckled.
Her hand is hovering awkwardly in the space between their bodies. For a moment she drops his gaze to look at it. Her skin is ink-stained from grading too many freshman Art History papers and chapped from the winter air. Well, that and her own aversion to wearing gloves.
Their eyes meet once more; her teeth reacquaint themselves with her bottom lip. She curls the fingers of her extended hand back towards her palm.
He shakes his head as if waking from a daze and grabs at the retreating digits, stopping her hand before she can drop it back to her side. He holds her fingers in his cupped palm, drawing them back towards his chest; it’s not quite a handshake. She doesn’t quite care.
“Lee…” he says softly. A shiver spikes at the nape of her neck; his tone suggests there’s more he’d like to say. Neither of them speaks.
He’s still holding her hand. It’s still not a handshake. She still doesn’t care.