( the thought of emmrich sitting at his desk, brow knotted, watching her while he writes for her, is such an intoxicating image that parisa tucks her knees up to her chest and reads it a dozen times over, wondering where he paused, what he thought. she's admittedly precious about it — won't read a word until he leaves to bathe in the morning, sitting where he sat and mulling over every line. she wipes the smile off her mouth once he exits, sucking her cheek in, before pulling emmrich back to bed, rendering his bath null and void.
her returning letter comes a few days later, though it might take longer to find, folded in between the pages of a book emmrich's been looking through lately. )
Beloved,
You earn points for naming a flower I've never heard of. Really, it's clever — I have no point of reference on whether to be flattered or not, but the mysticism has gotten to me, Monsieur Botanist. They look lovely, going off your sketch. And, on that note, who knew you were such an artist? It makes one wonder if there's anything you can't do. If you'd provide some examples, I'd like to hear them.
Truth be told, I've never give much thought to what I'd do if I wasn't a telepath. People seem to be my natural calling. Maybe I'd be a mortician, and see you in whatever avenue fate chose for you — necromancing or botany. Of course, if handsome men like you make a habit of visiting funeral homes, I imagine more people would find their way down there sooner rather than later, inside or out of the box.
Yours, Parisa
P.S. I think bluebells for you.
( additionally, there's a writing sheet for practicing letters — parisa wrote out the persian alphabet, leaving empty space for emmrich to test himself. )
no subject
her returning letter comes a few days later, though it might take longer to find, folded in between the pages of a book emmrich's been looking through lately. )
( additionally, there's a writing sheet for practicing letters — parisa wrote out the persian alphabet, leaving empty space for emmrich to test himself. )