[He watches her, for a bit, leaning against the frame of the door to the decks below. There isn't much to spend his time on, without an inmate - without one that counts, anyway, and this is probably something he ought to work on, and almost certainly something he won't. He runs in the CES, he drinks in his room or the pub, he works out in the gym, he occasionally wanders the library and stands on the deck to stare at the stars and reassert his minuscule position in the universe in his own mind.
He only watches long enough to see that she isn't writing. When she closes the diary, he pushes away from the door and heads her way, folding himself down on the other side of the bench. His hands settle in his lap, fingers laced loosely. Everything about his body language is careless, at least on the surface. There's always an alertness lurking beneath.]
I think JD Salinger actually wrote in his journals.
no subject
He only watches long enough to see that she isn't writing. When she closes the diary, he pushes away from the door and heads her way, folding himself down on the other side of the bench. His hands settle in his lap, fingers laced loosely. Everything about his body language is careless, at least on the surface. There's always an alertness lurking beneath.]
I think JD Salinger actually wrote in his journals.