contours



Contours, he'd written.

Fucking contours.

She shook her head and grinned, delighted not for the first time at some vocabulary choice of his.

His eloquence moved beyond an impressive and comfortable command of grand and lovely words - some of which sent her quickly, quietly to the dictionary (though she'd never tell!). No, he just had a way with words. He had his way with them. The things he did to those words...well, it made her fucking jealous, honestly.

He had a talent for picking and arranging them, the same way that a skilled florist picks and arranges flowers. Though with much less fuss, and much less mess.

He thought. He wrote. He conveyed. He delighted.

Meanwhile, she usually found herself casting about, frustratedly searching for her own right words. Kicking over rocks in the garden, watching as the wrong words came scurrying out from underneath, like insects suddenly exposed. She'd as often as not recoil. Ugh. That's definitely not it. 

Anyway, the contours. Back to the contours.

How could she delineate those contours, for him? They were still imprecise in so many ways. Still colored by assumptions, by pre-existing conditions of expectation and desire.

But mostly, they were being slowly sketched and inked by his own words. Words that sat with one weight on their dictionary pages, but that bore another entirely when thrown like wildflowers into his letters. Gorgeous, careless, daring, reckless, blooming wildflowers.

She bundled those wildflower words into a bouquet and brushed their petals lightly across her lips. She wanted to lay back and unloose them, let them fall where they would across her naked body.

She wanted to wear his words like Eve wore leaves. And she wanted to be just as tempting.

She'd have to find a way to bundle her own bouquet for him. She'd have to find words.