Scorpion

As their words unfurl into delicate prose, she takes a hot second to systematically digress. During this shift she composes her elbows beneath the table out of taught politeness. He takes notice.

He continues to ramble on in confident fancy. She slightly admires this affluent surge of personality, but only from a dissectable distance. she is far too skiddish around her own shadow to act upon social cues. He must assume control for her to falter. Whims are tested.

He slowly pulls his life away. She worries. Conversational magnetism is deflected back into her realm. He senses hesitation. She divides her mind into containers to find an answer.

He is weary now, but still tantalizingly interested in her choices of expression. How will she stand out as a soul? What is she trying to convey?

She conveys interest with a simple glance. Nothing detrimental. Nothing more than he needs to sheepishly progress the conversation, but she already knows this about him. She is highly intelligent. Keen to her senses.

Her large brown eyes flicker an aura of  sensitivity. A twice hurt but overwhelmingly beautiful creature, he righteously assumes a delicate past broods. He understands not to prod into past suitors... Her past is a watery blur of painful men. Strange energies. Unknown depths.

She takes a stand against her better judgment  and decides to open up. She is not used to this, but ultimately finds his sense of character and gravity a cocky shade of convincing. Unknowingly he has unlocked a small puzzle box within her well organized barriers. For some reason he chooses not to give up on her, yet. But she has heard this before...

She remembers back to the pines by the river. Where a former partner professed his admiration for another woman. She remembers looking into his devillish eyes and seeing a younger girl in her twenties by his side. Devoted until the end of time. She remembers why a cocky shade of convincing is never enough. Why gravity fails to uphold character...

At one point she had an affliction. He cannot see this and she knows he never will. She would spend vast summer days inside the tea house with her paintings. She felt hideous watching videos of beautiful people trade skin. She felt like a zombie and people treated her as such. She felt the whole world fall away softly, and she felt nothing for it in return, the world had turned on her... Now numbed to this ward. Shackled to someone who could not fully relate. Calloused over with a powerful sadness. Days were torture. She would pray for rain. A reason for everyone to stay inside.

He interrupts her pessimistic thoughts to make her smile. Dinner plates arrive. She thinks for a moment, she hasn't sincerely chuckled at any male prospect in ages. He is genuine, surely, but she will never know enough about him to continue. As worlds uncurl, she systematically  keeps him at an approachable distance. Even poetic prose ceases to amaze. She has monolithic prowess. Instinctual gaze. She stings like a scorpion. He takes notice.