The heavy fog of fear settles between them. Misty, the room falls silent—less the distinct sound of paper passing over paper, the shuffling happening ever-so-often, interrupted only by the straightening flick of said paper. Dark, candlelight illuminates small, two-foot pockets of space throughout the tiny room. She waits patiently, nervous, cross-legged comfortably on the heated, wooden flooring. He reads quietly, stoic, seated comfortably in the plush, leather sofa.
A large, red, black-cherry scented, three-wick candle flickers on the coffee table. Alone, the candle sits. She focuses all of her attention on the three flames, breathing deeply in with each slow, calming exhalation. In a violent, room-stirring instant, he sneezes and jolts her upright. They look at each other for a brief moment with only their ears. She returns to the candle, he to the papers in hand. Impatient, he feels her stir as she kneels in order to reach a fingertip into the melted wax. Slowly, she lifts a wax-covered fingertip from the candle and gently blows at the covered tip to harden the wax. He watches. She repeats the finger-dipping process until each fingertip of her left hand hardens with candle wax. He returns to the page.