*Tristan*
In the library, I stand by the fireplace and drink my best Scotch, one glass after another, while she sits in a nearby chair, her posture perfect.
In the end, she isn’t Reading me poetry but some story about windswept moors and haunting love. But I am not listening to the words as much as I am the lilt and smoky cadence of her voice. The raspiness of it has intrigued me from the beginning. She could recite the letters of the alphabet and hold me enthralled.
Dangerous, so very dangerous.
I want to sweep her up into my arms and carry her upstairs, even knowing the hell that holding her so close would bring. Watching her, I can almost forget my limitations, that there is so much I can not give her, and for the first time in my life, my inadequacies fill me with regret.
I am vai
