What's home, if not the first place you run away from? What's love, if not that unexplainable, blazing feeling which comes after a period of hate?
Reputable for her catchy appearance, her over-niceness, her obsession with cartoon animations and her...
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Astrid S. - Hurts So Good.
~
I CAN'T SAY I'M EXCITED for his appearance or anything similar to it, because I'd be lying, but here I stand, idly in the dimly-lit room, clutching the hem of my short gown tightly and trying not to have a panic attack, simply because I have no choice.
When I practically rushed in here by 9.56, I didn't see him sprawled out behind his desk with an alarm clock in his grasp like I one hundred percent expected. His office was as empty as his conscience, so naturally, I had to wait for him to show up and deem me worthy to sleep in one of his buildings tonight.
By 9.59, Mr. Ash enters his office with long steps and few pieces of what looks like important paper, once again leaving me in awe at his attire. I thought he would wear blazers and wool jackets to stay indoors, being all formal and businessman-like, but I was wrong.
Right now he's in an ash t-shirt and black sweatpants, with white socks-clad feet and Adidas slides. His hair is curly and tousled on his head and judging by the studs on his ears, he was a bit of a rascal during his youth and got both ears pierced. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck...
Stop it.
He stops for a moment, casting me a cheap glance like he'd even forgotten I was now living with him, then he beelines for his work space, the rumples of those important papers sounding like static.
I wait for him to walk past me, before I follow closely behind him, slowly. He has a toned back and very broad shoulders which don't look so wide when he's dressed in suits. He walks like he hasn't a care in the world. He smells like danger and comfort at once. Contrasting like his personality.
Christ, I can't wait for this dinner to be over. I don't like staying in his vicinity. It's combustible, like placing a filled gas-cylinder atop a hot car engine.
He settles down on his chair, tosses the papers on a pile of other papers on his desk, then he opens his bowl. The bowl I placed on his table when I walked into a lifeless room.
He's about to eat my food for the first time.
Unease washes over me like a river would a bedrock and I start doubting if I even prepared the dish well or not. It's not like I'm a bad cook; I mean it tasted good to me and smelt amazing to Jerry, but I don't know how he likes it, you know, being Spanish and all.
I wait patiently for him to take a bite out of the chicken burrito.
When he does, I bite my quaking teeth in expectation of the worst. And by 'worst,' I mean a glare of disgusting appraisal or a gruff "throw this away and sleep outside tonight." However, his expression doesn't falter in the slightest; he continues to eat silently, making use of each and every utensil I served him with. Is there anything he doesn't do so intricately?
