>>24851315 (OP)
>thread prompt
The Plotter
Her soft, red-painted lips pressed against mine. I'd gone in for a quick peck, something small and noncommital, my defenses still up. But when I brought my face close to hers, she closed her eyes, opened her mouth, and kissed me fully. My anxious tension melted away. Our tongues probed each other like our words had done in the days leading up, masking our mutual interest with casual chatter, searching for compatibility. After mentally deliberating and finding the extra movement potentially acceptable, I put my hand on her cheek. Suddenly, a character on the television made a loud joke, drawing our attention and breaking our fusion. She giggled.
"I love this show," she said.
My eyes couldn't stay on the screen. I looked at her face, at her bemused smile, at her sparkling eyes. But, while those eyes drifted from the screen to meet mine, disaster struck. I saw her gaze stop briefly on something behind me. Turning around would've been useless. I knew what she'd noticed. A large pinboard, currently empty, hung from my studio apartment's wall. She only stayed on it for a moment, but I could see her brow furrow with curiosity. I'd tried taking it down before her arrival, only to reveal a far more noticeable rectangle of paint left unfaded under the pinboard's shadow. Her eyes met mine, she smiled, and in the silence between us that followed, I left a wordless prayer that she'd forget her curiosity. God left it unanswered. When the episode's credits rolled, her interrogation began.
"What's that for?" she asked. My heart sank when she pointed at the pinboard.
"Just for... sticking stuff up on," I whimpered.
"Like what? There's nothing on it now."
"I use it to keep my thoughts organized."
"What kind of thoughts?" she followed up, relentless. When I hesitated, trying to think up a response, she added conspiratorially, "Are you a conspiracy theorist? Is that what you're keeping track of?"
"No, nothing that... deep."
"Aw," she said. "I like conspiracy theories."
"Me too, but that's not what the pinboard's for."
"Then, what's it for? Tell me," she begged with a pout and puppy-dog eyes, speaking over the next episode's theme song.
I sighed. The truth would have to come out eventually. Some overwhelming part of me knew it would ruin everything. If not immediately, then at some point later, when the exact nature of my endeavor's fruits became clear. She would discard me, disgusted. Of course, that didn't happen. The truth only strengthened our bond. She developed a keen interest in what I was doing, offering her help, which she gave with pleasure. She even managed to convince herself to join the tribe and went on to contribute her own voice to the world.
"I'm a writer," I reluctantly admitted. "I write fiction. I use the pinboard to plot narratives."