Nia
Our short walk home is packed with palpable tension. Despite our mutual try to hold a light conversation, we're both too distracted to even make it remotely interesting. The choppy, forced attempt at dialogue is dismissed by intent stares and short currents as our hands accidently meet. It's the kind of suppressed, boiling energy that could only be detonated in a bed, or against a wall, or on top of a washing machine.
With these thoughts seizing my mind, I miss the first time Reeves asks, "My place? "
I don't even try to play classy and just nod with an easy shrug. Well, it's better than actually uttering the words restlessly fidgeting on the tip of my tongue: "the elevator will be just fine. "
The ride up in the small compartment is short, but it's a lifetime in randy years.
