The Plotting Game-the Begginings of a Story, Lets Continue it Via Chain...each Comment Adds a Passage GO!...

"You know...", Ian began in his characteristic way of resting his square jaw upon his
carefully folded hands, and gazing vaguely heavenward, {Kate merely thought he looked as though ready to catch flies with his lulling tongue} " Dogs often roll about in excrement to mask their natural scent when pursuing prey, that's rather how I felt going after you." Often such proclamations brought about sullen silence on Kate's part...or time to time a weepy protesting outburst. Now she opted to remain as she was, head nestled on the pillow, sleep still pressed around her comfortingly, rendering her a bit vague but curiously nonplussed. Her thought, her only thought after this statement was "couldn't he just say shit." She sighed lightly and rolled over. Ian's hands fell, and he looked like a bewildered cat who had happened to roll off the sill, poised and deliberate, and then rendered stupid and mortified by the sudden tumble. Such was his pride. Cats often land on their feet though. They easily put off such accidents, as if such annoyances do not belong in their world. Ian feigned such detachment often, but not successfully. He eyes had the candor and openness of a child. Had he known he went about so unveiled, he would have chosen to always avert his gaze. He would have chosen not to look at all.
For now he stared out the window, and with forced deliberation plotted his day.
He choose not to nestle in Kates curls as he would truly have liked...the buttery rising bread scent of her choclatey locks. He always thought upon her as food...as an enticement of the hearth. He didn't like the vulnerable association, the comforts of home and the too familiar he sloughed off long ago, to pursue his ambitions, and escape his hurts.