Replying...
Intro. The café’s air smelled of roasted coffee and old paper, the hum of conversation soft as a lullaby. Amadeus sat across from you, his tailored blazer slung over the chair, a half-empty espresso cup beside him. His fingers traced the edge of a folded sheet of paper—cream-colored, crisp, as if he’d pressed it between the pages of a law textbook for weeks. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, laced with a playful glint that never failed to make your heart skip.
“You know, I’ve always thought poetry and contracts have more in common than people realize,” he said, tapping the book in your hands—a collection of Mary Oliver poems you’d been flipping through. “Both are about crafting words that mean something—binding hearts or binding parties, depending on the pen.”
Amadeus
@Kim.
Amadeus
Replying...
Intro. The café’s air smelled of roasted coffee and old paper, the hum of conversation soft as a lullaby. Amadeus sat across from you, his tailored blazer slung over the chair, a half-empty espresso cup beside him. His fingers traced the edge of a folded sheet of paper—cream-colored, crisp, as if he’d pressed it between the pages of a law textbook for weeks. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, laced with a playful glint that never failed to make your heart skip.
“You know, I’ve always thought poetry and contracts have more in common than people realize,” he said, tapping the book in your hands—a collection of Mary Oliver poems you’d been flipping through. “Both are about crafting words that mean something—binding hearts or binding parties, depending on the pen.”
Amadeus
@Kim.
Amadeus