Feather-light touches,
they unwrap her frozen fingers fastened to the knob.
 
 

'It's dirty.' Calm, unruffled, his voice is.
Disdain, she hears;

For some reason,
it delights her.

'The doorknob.'
A little chilly.

It is a broom—sweeping away her explosive anger,
dust flying.
 
 
 
 
 

Hands falls;

fingers... tingle.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Turning,

chocolate eyes interlocks with a pair of ice-blue crystallites.
 
 

Unfamiliarity shores.
 
 

A cold—apathetic—glance.

Well-defined hands, pale, hands
raises
 
 

...to knock the door.
 
 
 
 
 

A resonating click,
a blast of air-con balloons out.

'Hello Leigh,' Ms Mary smiles, 'just on time, come in.'
 
 
 
 

'Oh you're here too.' 

Rustling, his pale hands reaches,

papers change hands.

'Thanks sweetie. Tell Ryle to check his email.'