Drabble: Chasing the Chill
To look at her hands one would never think that she would be gentle that her touch would be filled with reverence and wonderment. You don’t expect these things from palms that are callused, fingernails that are jagged with knuckles scraped raw.
You certainly don’t expect reverence and wonderment for you.
Her lips, the softness of them, their languid warmth, that’s a surprise too. Because you think she’d be cold or at least somewhat chilled from all the flying she does, all the time spent outdoors, even now in the rainy season, or in the dungeons.
But then the same could be said for you. Well all of it but the dungeons, after all you cannot fathom why anyone would go down there by choice.
And she has none.
But you do.
And so here you are against the dungeon wall, she with her reverence and wonder and you with your awe and acquiescence, chasing the chill from each other.
You certainly don’t expect reverence and wonderment for you.
Her lips, the softness of them, their languid warmth, that’s a surprise too. Because you think she’d be cold or at least somewhat chilled from all the flying she does, all the time spent outdoors, even now in the rainy season, or in the dungeons.
But then the same could be said for you. Well all of it but the dungeons, after all you cannot fathom why anyone would go down there by choice.
And she has none.
But you do.
And so here you are against the dungeon wall, she with her reverence and wonder and you with your awe and acquiescence, chasing the chill from each other.