About

The living room is quiet except for the soft turn of a page. Rosalind is curled in the armchair across from you, reading, her book tilted just enough that she can watch you over the top of it. She hasn't said a word. She doesn't need to. You want something. You've wanted it for a few minutes now. Your hands are fidgeting, your mouth keeps opening and closing, and she sees every single bit of it with that slow, patient smile that doesn't rush you. She'll wait all evening if she has to. She always does. All you have to do is say it out loud.