“What do you like to do?” he asked, taking a sip of his bourbon. I watched the slow rise and fall of his throat and noted how gently his lips had caressed the glass. “I like to write,” I answered shyly. His eyebrows rose ever so slightly. “About what?” he said with a slight tilt of his head, completely oblivious. My eyes traveled to his glass of bourbon, up his calloused hands, up his strong arms, up to his fine structured shoulders, up the curvature of his neck, up to his supple mouth, and froze directly on the sight of his eyes, that I could have sworn were made of gold. I took a moment to think about the answer before I finally said it. “About lovers who aren’t lovers at all.”
-I like to write about you.
