He seemed like the quiet type; one that might have better luck with a pen and paper. Lost in a daydream of dark sonnets that I imagined filled the pages of his notebook, I caught myself dazed and staring at ancient water ring stains in my little round table, my pen no longer making contact with my paper. When I glanced his way he was smiling, not at his writings but at me. Back then I could easily be convinced to avoid an obvious risk but in his case I was willing to take my chances. Smiling back at him I’m sure I looked innocent but I didn’t feel like it one bit; I thought about the words he was scribbling and then his pen and then his hand… I couldn’t look away if I tried.

Back then I could easily be convinced to avoid an obvious risk but in his case I was willing to take my chances. Smiling back at him I’m sure I looked innocent but I didn’t feel like it one bit; I thought about the words he was scribbling and then his pen and then his hand… I couldn’t look away if I tried