her smile is a precise and careful architecture.
she places her hands flat on the table, a gesture of open ground that costs her something. a wire is pulled taut behind her ribs.

his shoulders are a soft curve toward her.
his hand rests near his cup, fingers twitching with an action he will not make. he sees the effort in her posture. it mirrors the tightness in his own gut.

the space between them is a held breath.
a recognition of the same deep fracture in each other.

he looks down at his own hands, studying them.
the quiet settles. it has a weight and a shape. it hollows them both from the inside.

her:
my smile feels painted on. he got quiet and i can feel my posture stiffen. i look too serious when i am not performing warmth. he will think i am cold. my sadness makes me want to please him into staying.

him:
the space between us on this bench feels like a canyon. i want to say something real. my throat is tight. i do not feel capable of giving what she will need. i am not ready for this.

her:
he stared at the pavement for a full minute. my fear tells me to run. but i look at his hands, how he wrings them. his fear looks like my own.

him:
i should just go home. i am wasting her time. i am sorry, i say. my head is somewhere else tonight.

her:
i reach out and touch his sleeve for just a second. it is okay, i say. we do not have to be anywhere.

he traced a circle on the table with his water glass.

"i tried writing again this morning. felt like nothing. like i was just moving words around to fill a space. i'll probably just throw it out." he dropped his gaze and his whole posture seemed to shrink.

she felt the familiar pull, the instinct to reassure him. she resisted it. she watched him, letting his words settle in the air between them.

"what was it about?" she asked quietly.

he looked up, his eyes surprised. the tension in his shoulders eased.

"a man who buys a boat," he said. "he doesn't know how to sail."

she nodded, a small smile touching her lips. his hand, which was resting near hers on the table, relaxed.

i know. i was completely overwhelmed this morning. my brain just builds a wall around the task.

i took the trash out. it was overflowing onto the floor.

i understand the mental architecture behind why i failed to do it. i'm actively working on it.

you were forty minutes late last night.

i was trying to finish that one email. the time blindness thing is a genuine symptom of—

i ate alone. our food was cold. the front door was unlocked when i left this morning.

i am trying to be vulnerable with you about my process.

the trash was on the floor. i ate dinner by myself. the door was unlocked all day.

meet his gaze softly and hold it for a moment longer than usual.
express a specific, positive observation about him, something subtle you genuinely find compelling.
say 'i appreciate you sharing that, it gives me a clearer sense of you.'
a light, attuned touch on his arm when he speaks conveys both safety and interest.
inquire with sincere curiosity about his experience of the interaction itself.
ask 'what kind of pace feels good for you in conversations like this?'
this invites him to co-shape the space you're building together.
allow comfortable silences to settle between you.
your consistent presence as he expresses himself builds foundation.
eroticism arises organically from this shared field of attention and mutual willingness to be perceived.

this coffee foam is doing that weird collapsing galaxy thing again.
wonder if they'd have a theory about that. probably something about micro-universes and barista intentions.

that specific way they had of finding patterns. seeing the code under everything.
then they'd say something about how the bodega cat was probably a minor deity of lost socks, and it would just click.
like a little key turning for a lock i didn't even know was there.
shifted the angle on things, made the mundane feel sparkly. gave it more story.

a good weird.