Clara
Alexander is sitting in my armchair as if he belonged to space, straight, serene, safe.
I leave the roses on the shelf by the window. The red contrasts too much with the sobriety of my living room. Too obvious. Too present.
I turn to him with a polite smile.
"Do you want something to drink?"
I feel strangely responsible for their comfort. As if bringing flowers forced me to reciprocate in some way. As if his gesture had created a silent debt.
"Do you want orange juice?" I ask almost reflexively, pointing to the kitchen.
He raises an eyebrow, amused.
"Don't you have wine by chance?"
My gaze slides to the dark wooden shelf where I keep the bottles. I swallow hard.
"Yes... I do have wine. Do you want a drink?"
Alexander nods naturally.
"I'd love to."
I walk to the kitchen f
