They lingered. The conversation going exactly as she'd hoped, and not at all as she'd imagined. Words tumbled over each other, catching on laughter and breath and dropping away into intense silence. He drew them on the fogged windshield - I'll take you to the opera, drive you to the top of a hill to watch the sunset, feed you ice cream naked in my bed. The condensation that had hidden his promises from view gathered and rolled under his point-and-drag finger, droplets mimicking the shivers running down her back. Between her cold wet toes and his heavy warm hand - idling near the crease of her right breast as he wrote - she hardly knew which sensation to focus on.I suppose some of you might be wondering about that supposed novel I've supposedly be writing for 2 supposed years, so here's a little snippet from this evening's endeavour. Honestly, I've been totally slack about it, but that's changing now. I used to think you couldn't schedule creativity. Turns out I'm just lazy.