( her eyes, drawn to the movement, seem focused on the clementine: he peels it without much care for the rind, enough that she wrinkles her nose and reaches, neatly, with two fingers, plucks at the ribbons of orange peel and then pulls them off of his lap onto the roof instead. there's not much use for them, although perhaps they could be useful for cleaning: not good for compost, the acid could hurt the plants. her fingers toy around with them, circling them around in lazy patterns; better than up and staring at him, right?
but the way he speaks: an only child, living alone...she imagines that must mean that something happened to his parents. but what? she doesn't want to ask about it yet, doesn't want to prod when he's already being cagey about things, already seemingly displeased with the question. that makes them more similar than she'd really realized--her chin lifts, hands drawn back into her lap, and they only lift once he passes the bottle back. she takes it, between both palms, lifts it up and takes a hearty swallow: a little too much, given that she gives a petite little cough and then nestles the bottle back down into her lap. )
Jasmine. Chamomile. Usually cold, though, the both of them.
( that's likely not a very surprising answer, or very interesting: she gives a laugh, almost apologetic, and then lifts the bottle again, sneaking just one small, tiny little swallow before she seeks to pass it back to him. she has to consider it--trying to maintain the balance of what he's willing to share, without boring him to sleep. well, there's a thought: )
no subject
but the way he speaks: an only child, living alone...she imagines that must mean that something happened to his parents. but what? she doesn't want to ask about it yet, doesn't want to prod when he's already being cagey about things, already seemingly displeased with the question. that makes them more similar than she'd really realized--her chin lifts, hands drawn back into her lap, and they only lift once he passes the bottle back. she takes it, between both palms, lifts it up and takes a hearty swallow: a little too much, given that she gives a petite little cough and then nestles the bottle back down into her lap. )
Jasmine. Chamomile. Usually cold, though, the both of them.
( that's likely not a very surprising answer, or very interesting: she gives a laugh, almost apologetic, and then lifts the bottle again, sneaking just one small, tiny little swallow before she seeks to pass it back to him. she has to consider it--trying to maintain the balance of what he's willing to share, without boring him to sleep. well, there's a thought: )
The last dream you had.