“Don’t dance before my eyes,” he said.
“But I’m just sitting and reading,” she said, glancing up at him.
“Yes, but the way your lips move silently, as if whispering a reticent prayer. The way your eyes vacillate from the pages, to the open window, and to me. The way your fingers slip through your auburn hair and you rest your temple on the heel of your palm. And your words weigh down, carefully aimed to knock down any defence of apprehension. They are nothing less than a rendition. And you say you’re just sitting?’ he said amused.
~NamrataR | Edited by Afreen Zeb