o.n. a.g.a.i.n. . . .

When watching Stella joking with her canine, Dwane had to bite back a laugh several times. He hadn’t known how humorous some women were when alone with their pets, discovering he found this fact utterly amazing. Perhaps it was that they were too shy in company, or the inexplicable charisma of dogs?
He was sitting on her sofa again, looking at her while she was working. He could feel her concentration; she was so deep within her work she didn’t notice anything around her, giving him a good occasion to look upon her from behind. She was wearing her hair in a ponytail today, the end of which almost reached the center of her back. A few strands of it had gotten loose, however, and were now hanging in her face. He imagined how soft, how alive it had felt against his fingertips, that night when he had smoothed them out of her face. He wanted to do it again, wanted to feel like he had not been able to for such a long time, not since he had gotten in this situation. She was the only one he could touch, anyway. Nevertheless, before he could risk another contact she would have to retire first, or else he would frighten her too much, and would get him nowhere. He wanted to avoid this as far as possible, mainly because he didn’t even know whether he could establish contact with her while she was awake, and trying now would be reckless, nothing else. He didn’t want to try until she knew who he was, so he would have to wait.