What's he gonna do, say hey, Freckles, how 'bout you 'n' me and a clean bed makes three? Woman wants to eat, she gets to eat. Anyhow, they need their stamina, bein' the active consenting adults they are.
Left-handed, he flicks through and orders his own stuff, and marvels (but only for a second or two) over how irrelevant stuff can be when a man's got somethin' better to look forward to. Seein' as how he ain't the kind to giggle into the palm of his hand and play footsie under no damn table, he lets the pleasure he gets from just bein' here with Freckles shine right out his eyes...
Hang on. What the... oh, hell, Mr. Rochester, he tells himself, don't go turnin' into no damn romantic. Yeah, better to put a swift end to that crap.
This is kind of like walkin' a tightrope. No angle means no script and no script means uncharted territory. Uncharted territory means a man could make a mistake, and makin' a mistake could mean the whole thing gets screwed up. Just like with anything, he don't want to screw it up.
He's done that enough.
So how the hell's he supposed to act? Guess however he is; he leans back in his chair and grins kind of quiet and all. He ain't never had no damn butterflies in his belly before. Not like this. He wishes fate would explain him this: how the hell's he supposed to be full of poise and swagger when he feels like he's fifteen damn years old?
He's got to say something.
"You still up for that movie date, Freckles? We could sit in the back row."
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What's he gonna do, say hey, Freckles, how 'bout you 'n' me and a clean bed makes three? Woman wants to eat, she gets to eat. Anyhow, they need their stamina, bein' the active consenting adults they are.
Left-handed, he flicks through and orders his own stuff, and marvels (but only for a second or two) over how irrelevant stuff can be when a man's got somethin' better to look forward to. Seein' as how he ain't the kind to giggle into the palm of his hand and play footsie under no damn table, he lets the pleasure he gets from just bein' here with Freckles shine right out his eyes...
Hang on. What the... oh, hell, Mr. Rochester, he tells himself, don't go turnin' into no damn romantic. Yeah, better to put a swift end to that crap.
This is kind of like walkin' a tightrope. No angle means no script and no script means uncharted territory. Uncharted territory means a man could make a mistake, and makin' a mistake could mean the whole thing gets screwed up. Just like with anything, he don't want to screw it up.
He's done that enough.
So how the hell's he supposed to act? Guess however he is; he leans back in his chair and grins kind of quiet and all. He ain't never had no damn butterflies in his belly before. Not like this. He wishes fate would explain him this: how the hell's he supposed to be full of poise and swagger when he feels like he's fifteen damn years old?
He's got to say something.
"You still up for that movie date, Freckles? We could sit in the back row."