Postcards from the Subconscious
that's what dreams are
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All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author--in this case, Rose. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.
You watch the grace in the movement, the way hands almost flutter and almost fly as they turn and handle and cradle, and it's beautiful.

They're not smooth, and not soft, but they're sure, and they know what they're doing. There's no hesitation, no shake, no doubt in them, and you know how to fake that well enough in your own movements, but you don't think it's faked when he does it.

You can hold a gun as well as the next person, and you can fire it, but he can be at rest with it, and not troubled by it, and the comfort in him while he sits and cleans it makes you catch your breath.

You think he'd just gape at you if you tried to explain, so you don't. You keep it to yourself, and watch his hands, and admire the way they run over the consoles and the walls and a gun and your hair, sure and certain, no doubt in what he's doing.

And you think it's beautiful.


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