Sketching

Amy walks in with her pencil and pad. She doesn't even ask. Just sits there in her quiet way. He keeps watching Dallas, mind half on the show, half on the small scratching sounds she makes with her pencil. He holds his head still, but not so still to be mistaken for posing. She wouldn't like that. He's busting for a pee, but he doesn't get off the couch. Wants to see what she thinks he looks like.

She likes his silence, she's never liked talking much. When she finally learnt to speak it was as if she could see her words lie awkward on the air, her parents' faces urging her on through the thick soup. Her mother's disappointment when she'd stutter and stop. She preferred silence, moments when you could see the changing shapes of clouds and trees again.