Scent of Home

Amalia's piercing gaze continues to track him, sable eyes bright with interest as they drink him in. He is dressed in black and leather, belts and chains: a tableau of otherness which fascinates the girl. So absorbed is she that she does not notice him moving until he is there, leaning forward on her counter, a strange sort of smile upon his face. Instinctively she takes a step back, blinking rapidly, the flush returning to her cheeks. She cannot recognize the thing he is doing at flirting, though something in her belly flutters in response. It is an instinctive dance, one even the unpracticed can fall into, stumbling and mumbling and ever at a loss. She wipes her hands upon her apron again, not sure what else to do with them, with herself, with this strangely dressed and strangely acting man. The bowl of dough stands between them like a shield, ready for kneading, making the air sweet. "Ah..." she repeats, somewhat lost, her eyebrows furrowed above a bemused smile. "Amalia. Amalia Chandrakant. And you?" amalia been talking to myself forever and how I wish I knew me better