One evening, after switching off the wireless, Siegfried finds himself transfixed by the deft movements of Audrey's fingers, her unshakable focus, and the wrinkle between her brows as she works on a particularly complex stitch. Her attention is fully occupied, and his eyes and mind are free to linger. He loves that wrinkle. He loves the intensity in her eyes, and relishes the opportunity to observe it when it's not turned on him to direct or scold. As he's done countless times now, he calls up the feeling of those hands on his back the night Germany invaded Paris months before, the warmth of her body against his, the vulnerability on that determined face as she returned his promise to take care of each other.
He's gazing at her with an expression of unbridled adoration when she looks up suddenly, catching him. There is no precedent within their relationship for how to play this off, and no muscle memory to carry him through. His face blanks in panic and he claps his eyes back on his book, furrowing his brow in an attempt to look studiously enthralled. He moves his lips slightly, shaping the words as he reads, the picture of utmost concentration. He feels clownish and certain she'll never buy it, but survival instinct has taken over and he can't seem to stop himself.
Audrey, for her part, is drawing a blank. She's not entirely certain what she just saw, but her heart is suddenly pounding and she has no idea which stitch she's on. She'll have to unravel half the row to get back on track. Did that happen, or did she dream it? Siegfried, for his part, is giving no help at all; he is now, to all appearances, utterly disinterested in her. Trying to slow her breath, she turns back to her knitting. The next evening, she will have to unravel thirteen rows - the rest of that night's work is an unredeemable mess.
