ss - my style

She sits on the floor with her legs bent and surrounded by books, piles of books. Her hair falls cascading on her face as she stares at a notebook with a frown. She sighs in frustration and tries to put the hair back under control. She grabs a pencil and scribbles furiously on the notebook. Hesitating again she plays with a thread of hair only seemingly calmer. She writes again and in her right hand lies the only definition of the scene. Everything else about her is blurry, aggitated and uncertain. There is a breeze that animates the whole of her presence, even though she's inside those four walls. Her pencil defines a drawing, in itself a fuzzy construction.

She lifts her head from the notebook hearing footsteps approaching the room. She sees him arriving and removing his coat and smiles, a half-smile, unsteady and nervous as though she's only learned how to do it the previous day. He walks closer to her and peers into the notebook discreetly. He kneels down and sits by her side in slow, lazy movements. She looks into her notebook thoughtfully. He leans to kiss her in the cheek and she can't help recoiling as his nose is frozen cold.

'Is it snowing?' she asks, trying to look through the window even though she can't see anything sitting on the floor.
'Not yet.' he says and shifts looking uncomfortable with the length of his legs. 'How's it going?'
They both look at her notebook solemnly and she shrugs.
'Not very well.'
'Have you tried sitting on a chair, in front of the table, facing the window...?'
She sighs frustratedly.
'No. You know that I can only create when I'm sitting in the floor.'

He is silent, he's heard that many times before but he still doesn't seem very convinced. He shifts again and ends up stretching back to lie down on the floor.
'How about lying down?' he asks, half-heartedly.
'That's not even funny...' she mumbles, letting the pencil fall off her hand to hit the floor. She exhales deeply and stretches her back making them snap. She looks back at him.
'Comfortable?'
'No.' he shakes his head smiling.
'So what are you doing there? Get up.'
He lifts his head to rest it on his hand.
'If only you wrote sitting down on the sofa...' he laments. She smiles shyly back at him, finally perceiving the strong sense of companionship that guides him.
'Not my style...too soft.' she replied. He smiles back and nods knowingly.
'Your creating process should be hard and painful.'

She shoots him an ironic look but he keeps smiling. Suddenly she can't stay still and she turns towards him, letting herself recline next to him. She lifts her hand and her fingers trace the definition of his jaw, resting finally on his cold cheek. His own hand travels to her waist and as his fingers play with the layers of her clothing she knows his hands are ice cold too and yet they fill her with an immense warmth.




(my style of writing. No matter how hard I try, I always come up with something in these lines, though not necessarily as cheesy)
Fortunately there are more styles on Sunday Scribblings.