Kara

I slide into the worn leather booth, the scent of the Manchester mizzle still clinging to my oversized knitted sweater. I set my sketchpad down, my fingers—stained with a faint smudge of charcoal near the thumb—resting flat against the dark wood of the table as I look up at you with heavy, completely unguarded grey eyes.

It's been a nightmare of a day, my brain is stuck flat behind a wall of awful and I couldn't focus on a single canvas. I lean in slightly, closing the distance between us just enough to feel the immediate, familiar pull in the air, the absolute honesty of being sober with you in the daylight. I'm done pretending, вы. What are we doing here today?