It's strange, feeling— well, feeling the way he does about her. It's not puppy love — he's too old for that — but it comes pretty close in the way that he gets butterflies in his stomach whenever he sees her, the way he laughs more than he means to when they talk. (It's kind of pathetic, probably, a man of his age getting so lovesick — especially over a young girl like her — but it is what it is. Don't break my heart, she says, and he keeps his word. He does his fucking best not to.)
They don't spend as much time together as he'd like, but it's part and parcel of the whole deal between them. Still, maybe there's some good things about it; a premium on time means more of an effort to make that time count. They go out this time — well, out for a certain definition of the word. They go to a local diner, get lunch (innocuous, or at least as innocuous as they can be), split a slice of pie even though it's the middle of the day. They walk back to his place, after. It's a nice enough day. The snow's mostly melted, leaving slush in the divots next to the roads. The sky's the kind of blue-grey that tends to exist halfway between winter and spring, a few clouds blotting out the sun.
His hand finds hers somewhere between here and there. It's a light touch, a brush of his fingers before they curl to take hers, free to offer up that little gesture of intimacy with no real traffic on the roads. He looks over at her once — twice — feeling a certain bafflement each time that she's chosen to spend her time with him.
(He realizes, after a while, that their time is limited not just because they can't really be around each other so much but because she'll be going away to college soon enough. He asks her, sometimes, how the process is going, where she's applied, if she's heard back. But it's a careful line of inquisition — he cares, yeah, but there's a line in the sand as far as showing it goes.)
He's still holding her hand when they get back, laughing slightly as he fumbles with his other hand for his keys. ]
You sure you don't have anywhere else to be?
[ It's not a suggestion for her to leave — it's just incredulousness, as it usually seems to be. ]
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It's strange, feeling— well, feeling the way he does about her. It's not puppy love — he's too old for that — but it comes pretty close in the way that he gets butterflies in his stomach whenever he sees her, the way he laughs more than he means to when they talk. (It's kind of pathetic, probably, a man of his age getting so lovesick — especially over a young girl like her — but it is what it is. Don't break my heart, she says, and he keeps his word. He does his fucking best not to.)
They don't spend as much time together as he'd like, but it's part and parcel of the whole deal between them. Still, maybe there's some good things about it; a premium on time means more of an effort to make that time count. They go out this time — well, out for a certain definition of the word. They go to a local diner, get lunch (innocuous, or at least as innocuous as they can be), split a slice of pie even though it's the middle of the day. They walk back to his place, after. It's a nice enough day. The snow's mostly melted, leaving slush in the divots next to the roads. The sky's the kind of blue-grey that tends to exist halfway between winter and spring, a few clouds blotting out the sun.
His hand finds hers somewhere between here and there. It's a light touch, a brush of his fingers before they curl to take hers, free to offer up that little gesture of intimacy with no real traffic on the roads. He looks over at her once — twice — feeling a certain bafflement each time that she's chosen to spend her time with him.
(He realizes, after a while, that their time is limited not just because they can't really be around each other so much but because she'll be going away to college soon enough. He asks her, sometimes, how the process is going, where she's applied, if she's heard back. But it's a careful line of inquisition — he cares, yeah, but there's a line in the sand as far as showing it goes.)
He's still holding her hand when they get back, laughing slightly as he fumbles with his other hand for his keys. ]
You sure you don't have anywhere else to be?
[ It's not a suggestion for her to leave — it's just incredulousness, as it usually seems to be. ]