i: artist's hands
"look at her, with her smile like a flame
she will love you like a fly will never love you again"
- paradise circus, massive attack
It all starts one day in July.
She's sick of being stared at; tired of being an object of scrutiny.
Instead of taking her usual place closest to the door, she rashly strides to the back corner.
"Mind if I sit here?" She asks him, voice husky and inarticulate. Not waiting for an answer, she takes a seat, swinging her long legs under the battered desk.
After allowing a few minutes of "concentration," she takes the time to examine his profile out of the corner of her eye.
Dark, mussed-up hair; long lashes; his nose; the subtle curving of his lips.
Her gaze lowers to his hands resting on the empty space in front of him. Indian ink stains his fingers; pencil lead and charcoal dust his knuckles, and his nails are torn. Artist's hands.
Unbeknown to her, but as she returns her attention to the front of the room, he's checking her out.
Ripped jeans, slim frame draped in a loose political tee. Her hair is in a tangled knot, her ears bitten into a series of painful-looking studs and barbells. Her fingers are tapping an impatient rhythym on the tabletop, nails bitten short and coated in chipped black polish. An 80s calculator watch is strapped to her thin wrist, and illegible scrawl covers the backs of her hands.
For just a moment, he wonders if the incredible rumors are true, after all.
a/n: your interest piqued? all vill be revealed...