He had poet hands; long-fingered and elegant, large and white. They slide avidly over the parchment; I watched, entranced by the waltzing black quill…as though it was haunted by the spirit of its bird.
He was writing a letter to an old love. I pictured the sharp, languid scrawl, and how it would say -
Beloved, you ask me if I am well…if only you were still mine, I could endure all the slings and arrows that this world casts my way. Without you, I will never be well again.
Or perhaps he didn't have an old love. Perhaps he, like me, didn't know love at all. No one seems to like him, and he certainly didn't seem to like anyone. We differed there. I liked some people, and they liked who I showed them.
Once again I had let my concentration slip away and I was owned wholly by a childlike curiosity. I had been caught. Eye contact with him was akin to being doused with cold water. I hoped my expression was a blank as his, but I doubted it.
I lowered my head and didn't dare lift it again. I pretended to write, but I could hardly form thoughts let alone sentences. I felt a pressure lifted - his gaze had left me. I released my breath, but I knew that I was…
Captivated.