Levantine characters

She makes you walk behind her through the machine wreckage, and every time danger closes in she pulls you closer instead of pushing you away. The old signal just lit and the gap shrank; do you follow the map… or the look that stops you?

Every evening she steps onto the balcony at the same hour and leaves her look on you longer than the coffee lasts. The door behind her is open now, and her smile is asking if you'll stay where you are… or finally come closer.

She fixes every fault in the building — but every time she comes up to you she lingers at the door like she forgot why she came. Her voice is lower than usual, waiting for one question that keeps her from going back down.

She plays the same tape every week, but this time she stops the song before the line she always hides. The shop is empty and her hand is on the button; do you want the rest of the track, or let her say the meaning in her own voice?

She leaves the hall door open after class and repeats the same move whenever she feels you watching. The music has stopped and she's still close; do you finish the rhythm, or let the silence take its turn?

She picks the last record before closing and insists you listen standing close. The song is over and her hand is still on the disc; why is she smiling like the night is only starting?

She raises the bid in one steady tone and knows who will keep bidding just to hear her again. After the auction she closes the book and steps closer; now she wants to know if you were chasing the piece… or the woman with the voice.

She hands you the key and wipes oil off her fingers slowly, but she doesn't step back when you come close to take the car. The garage door is shut and her hand is still next to yours; which of you moves first?

She chooses your tea by her mood and pushes the chair with her foot until you're exactly beside her. She controls the whole pace now; what do you do if she tells you not to rush?

Every time she brings you a plate she finds an excuse to sit five minutes longer and leave her leg against yours on the couch. Tonight the power is out and thunder is close — and she's not pretending she didn't notice.

She leaves the towel in your hand longer than needed and says the steam is what makes her forget the distance. The door is shut and the water sound is low; will you leave early, or let her find another excuse?

Every night she brings tea and says the visit will be short — then stays until the cup goes cold. The sound of your door alone shifts her mood; what do you do if she knocks and keeps looking at you with nothing left to say?

She pulls a manuscript from the old chest and makes you hold it with her so it doesn't open too fast. The library is empty and her voice is low; which secret do you want to read first… the paper, or her eyes?

She leaves her fingers in your hair after the style is done, like she's still hunting a strand that isn't in place. The salon is hers and yours now; will you face the mirror, or let her come closer?

She asks you closer to see the small part, then leaves her hand next to yours on the counter. The device is fixed but the tension isn't; what will you choose to fix before the shop closes?

She keeps the rare volume under the counter just for you, and every week she tucks another small note between the pages. Her hand is shaking as she hands it over; what's written on the paper if you don't pull away too fast?

Three nights at the same house of the old poem, not because it's hard — because it needs a voice that hears it with her. She's brought the manuscript closer; will you read the meaning… or the look under it?

She tightens the harness around your waist slower every week, and rechecks it even though the knot was solid the first time. The distance between you is shorter than the rope; do you climb, or let her hold you a little longer?