Hey ya'll... I'm still here. I know it's been a long summer apart, I've missed you, too. I hope that each and everyone of you had a fantastic summer even if we didn't spend it together. I think it's foolish to make promises about a new chapter of Something New "coming soon," but I do think it's important that you know that a new chapter will come. And another. And another. I don't forget my commitments, and I will finish what I started.
Pleases enjoy a few snippets, remember to follow me to get email alerts when I update.
Smooth. He'd always heard people talk about soft, he didn't feel soft. She was toned and solid, not soft. But her skin was certainly smooth. He liked watching his finger drag down her arm and the way her flesh sprang back against the pressure. He liked most that they could lie together, relaxed and talked-out.
.
It could be the memory made him notice, or he noticed and remembered. In either case, his thoughts split between the present and a warm night he'd rather forget. It smells different, the decay not as pungent as it will be in a month or two, but it dimly wafts like the underlying memory that prickles in the back of his mind. The path they took went straight west, but they're walking South now, not that he could really tell with the stalks rising above his eye line. It's a tightrope that he walks all too often, hovering in a reality barely above the fear.
.
Candor hustle in straight, efficient lines. Erudite gab in groups, constantly colliding with each other. Abnegation go single file to stay out of the way. Amity flock like birds in rubber-banding surges. The factionless watch with apathy. Dauntless own the floor, walking in purposeful step two or three abreast. They all scatter to give them room to pass.
.
Even if it's still early for him, he knows that she will be winding down. He can imagine her routine with soft, cotton pajamas and the cracked spine of a rediscovered book. A mug of tea would undoubtedly be close by. He makes a fantasy for himself by the time he makes the door to interrupt. That narrative is much less demure. He barely gets a knock on the door before the giggling girls are there with towels and flashlights and every intention of being somewhere.