Four snippets for you...
.
.
She held the box labeled 12-45a. She came to have the box only because it wasn't claimed. Either no one survived to claim it or the sentimental nature of keep sakes had been crushed from them by her faction of birth. They aren't the rings worn by her parents, she couldn't find those, or anything related to their bodies. But they would have had ones exactly like them, somehow that was close enough.
.
.
Doubt, with a capital D. She laced the valves of her heart with it, each thud pumping it into every ounce of blood and tissue. She perched nervously. She watched him absently wield the blade as if it was a spoon, nearly missing his finger tips with each pass. The thunk, thunk, thunk! that pointed his statements and filled the silence. Then the shhhhzzzz took over the airwaves. Shortly after came the reassuring smell of slowly cooking chicken like an antidote to the poison. Maybe he could cook.
.
.
He covers his body with his arms, hugging himself inside the layers of his jacket. He feels cold, all the insulating ideas that wrapped him were lost in the hour session. Now he's bare and raw and reflective. He's tied up in his head not processing his surroundings until one face finds his. It feels like getting caught, too flustering to formulate why she was there at all. He didn't feel cold anymore, instead flushed with blood and adrenaline enough to propel him psst with out a word.
.
.
He can't be alone with her. He knows the pieces inside of him are still too of kilter. He'd either lose it in rage or lust and neither match what he wants for the future. She tries every thing to thwart his carefully planned evenings. It worries him, she's smarter than he is and eventually the door will shut and they'll be entirely on their own and she'll be facing his demons, trapped, and not knowing how close to the surface they lurk.
.