Writer's note:
To research...dialogue grammar rules.
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"I don't like children."
As he described, his clothes are all black. There's usually a cool print on his t-shirt, like a funky rainbow. Long and well-fitting pants, beanie, light-colored muffler. Strands of night-colored hair...is it dyed? Baby faced, fair skin, warm blue eyes...expressive. Oh, and ankle-high leather boots.
I suppose he nails the look of an unconventional artist, his art form being academia. Well, maybe he paints?
He don't care much for pronouns. The course is on Sexual & Gender diversity.
Due to whatever need of mine—emotional, physical—I had an extended nap, imagining me invading him, in many ways. It's less about looks this time, more about personality. He's funny, real, got the flare for theater...
Seems like sub material.
"Alrighty, that's a wrap. See you all."
Shuffling, footsteps. A few remain seated, quickly scribbling out a discussion question for the week. Some moments later, as usual, it's just me and him in the sun-lit room. However, it isn't slowness that's keeping me here.
Scrap of lined paper in hand, I glance at him before standing up. He's packing up, chiller than usual. I know why. This is my realm, after all.
I close the door to the room, notice the lock, lock it. I turn, facing the confused figure.
I move, impossibly calm in this realm, only breaking eye contact to add my scrap to the pile. Then, he's against the pale wall, my hand on his chest. The graphics of his shirt feels wore.
Lips slightly parted. Darling.
"I told you you're attractive, remember?" his pretty startled eyes, "Are you in a rush to leave?"
No response.
"Good. Keep staying still."
Grab hold of his wrists, move them over his head. Well well, he's collaborating. With some trouble, I pin him with my nondominant hand...ha, height difference.
