Table Talk

Keeping time, tapping upon a mug can only get the spoon knocked away from an unaware hand.

~ A Glimmer ~

Sometimes less of an action does install more fear than anything else. He felt her eyes staring his noise making down. The spoon was placed down clumsily, and it could have been taken as thrown. He had other things to worry about, and the pulsing veins in his bloodshot eyes throbbed lightly and the intensity gradually ebbed away.

She glared at him, hoping he’d make eye contact. There were some attempts, but the notions fell short and disappointed.

“She’s nice,” she uttered through her finally wetted lips. The chain of words towed a pause, which dragged out to an evident silence.

“She is,” he replied. His gaze focused into the black liquid in the mug.

“There is something about her … and I can see that she likes you.”

“I’m pretty sure she does,” he said, but there was seemingly a lack of convincing, a disbelief that ballooned and floated like a bubble from his mouth.

“She may come across rash, some of the things she says may not be intended to sound that way.”

“That’s possibly true–”

“And it’s the way that she looks at you. It was noticed a few times. She looked up at you and smiled. There’s a twinkle in her eye. She admires you.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, but hesitantly. The word’s tail trailed off.  It dragged torn. He looked out the window, stared into the shifting sun rays. He put the mug up to his mouth, and he sipped. He felt the color return to his face, but he still felt clammy; his mouth still was dry.

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