lanselos_du_lac

Susan fancies herself a pragmatist, and fiercely independent besides. A woman who enjoys sex but doesn't let her head get turned around by her partners. A woman who makes few commitments to others beyond the here and now. She hasn't been particularly serious about many people in the past. She'd tried, with Clarence from work, after Miriam had said - it doesn't matter; it hadn't clicked. Some might argue that she'd been serious about Miriam (Ingrid had made that argument, several times), but for a multitude of reasons that seem unimportant now, Susan hadn't been convinced.

But Lancelot says these sweet little things that fluster her more than she's accustomed to. It's been happening for weeks now, ever since the first time he kissed her. She knows that she's beautiful; she knows that she's fun; she knows that she's slowly starting to be good company again. She knows that they're compatible, both sexually and as friends. And that's how she's been thinking of him, mostly: a dear friend and a sweetheart who's handsome and good in bed. Still, when he says these things that fluster her so, suspicion edges in: he's turning her head. She can speak to him, frankly, about things that are bothering her, and she barely even feels like she's taking liberties or burdening him. She's only lost herself once in the way that, over the past few months, has felt increasingly commonplace, and only for a little while - she'd caught herself and focused on Lancelot, rather than on using him to anesthetize herself to a surge of memory.

I always feel better with thee, he says, and her heart honest-to-God clenches for a moment, warmth flooding through her. Her mouth works; she licks her lips. Me too, she thinks, but she can't bring herself to speak the words aloud. She squeezes his shoulder instead.