LYDIA MARTIN

[wantadistraction]

"You know what to do."

Comments

[wantadistraction]

Somehow I don’t believe that’s possible for you.

[greatswellofpity]

You never know. I just might surprise you. I'm sure I could be an absolutely dreary human being if that would better suit you.

Although, to be blunt, you don't strike me as the type to settle.

[wantadistraction]

To be honest, it might be nice some days but you're right. I am not one to settle or to be bored for long.

I'm not usually called sweet though.

[greatswellofpity]

You are definitely sweet. Sweet like dark chocolate--it can be made very sweet indeed, superficially delightful, but even the darkest stuff has hidden sweetness. Fruit notes through the bitterness and the sharp, exotic complexities of pure cacao, undiluted by sugar and cream.

I much prefer the sweetness of dark chocolate to milk chocolate. Every single time.

[wantadistraction]

So you think I am superficially delightful?

[greatswellofpity]

What? Of course not! I don't mean to say, rather

[He starts to type, then deletes all of it. Lydia...she likes to keep a man on his toes, that much is certain.

He shouldn't enjoy it as much as he does, and yet...

Biting his lower lip with a smile, he considers for a moment, then...]

Yes. Superficially. However, that's just the shell you've been dipped in. There are cracks in it, so I've seen the darker stuff beneath. The pure cacao--undiluted. Bitter, fruity, nuanced. Endlessly revealing something new, rich and satisfying and lingers with you long after it's gone. Haunts you, stays with you...makes you want more.

A taste of that would be an experience that would ruin a man for anything else.

[wantadistraction]

[ It's almost a shame that he can't see the way she chuckles at his response or how she bites her lip when he comes back with more. ]

See? I stand by my statement that you are dangerously charming.

It's also clear that you have put a lot of thought into this, Charles. Or how I might taste?

[greatswellofpity]

I have. More than I care to admit.

And I've come up empty. Nothing I imagine feels...significant enough.

[wantadistraction]

Why is it more than you care to admit?

[greatswellofpity]

[Charles doesn't answer for a couple minutes--because he's thinking hard about this one. How to tell her...

How he wants her. How he enjoys her, not the visual feast of her beauty but the delightful way they verbally spar and the easy way they talk.

How he...wants her.]

Because death has left me enchanted by his paramour, and so I lie awake each night, straining, hoping, to hear the wailing woman call out my name.

[wantadistraction]

[ At first, she wonders if maybe she has asked something she shouldn't have. If maybe they should have danced around this, whatever it was, a little bit longer.

But then he replies and it's almost too much. But perfectly so.

She almost makes the comment that most people wouldn't want a wailing woman to call out their name but she knows that he isn't what he is getting at. At least, she is fairly sure that he isn't. ]

Perhaps one night, you will.