fifty-five : hold on
Her fingertips found his upturned wrist in the dark space beside her. She traced over the warmth of his palm and linked her fingers between his. There was no electric spark. They touched, but they just touched. Her brow furrowed. No moving earth or rush of blood to the head. No giddy stomach, no butterflies, no trumpets.
Later, when their lips touched in the dark she waged a war on her heart, trying to hold on to an old feeling. It was gone.
Too tired to write tonight. This reads like the anticlimax of a poorly planned romance novel. Sorry about the sinking standard of posts on here. I’ll try harder.
