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<blockquote data-quote="kaya" data-source="post: 2710731" data-attributes="member: 242760">Hi, this is an excerpt from a longer piece that I&#039;m working on. I was wondering if I could get some feedback on what to improve, if it flows well, etc. Proofreading would be great <img src="https://cdn.jsdelivr.net/joypixels/assets/8.0/png/unicode/64/1f642.png" class="smilie smilie--emoji" loading="lazy" width="64" height="64" alt=":)" title="Smile&nbsp; &nbsp; :)"&nbsp; data-smilie="1"data-shortname=":)" /> ----I often wonder what it would be like to have a short-lived escapade with an older man. He would be the kind that rushes past sidewalk traffic with purpose, in a suit beneath an overcoat that leaves much to the imagination. The kind that lets me sit on his lap with his arms wrapped around me and my head nestled beneath his jaw. I want him to wince the first time I call him “daddy”; to tell me I don’t have to try that hard. His beard could be greying and his eyes stale, haunted by failed pursuits and vapid relationships. But above all, I want him to have my third grade teacher’s hands. It occurred to me last summer’s road trip as we drove through the small town he grew up in and spoke fondly of. I remembered how he later returned as my eighth grade English teacher, still warm, though not as meek and fresh as he once was. He would call us to his desk individually to provide feedback on our short stories; each time he looked up, I would panic and my eyes darted around his for mere seconds before settling on his hands – sturdy with gently curved fingers; adorned by a silver wedding band. I never quite understood why I couldn’t look him in the eyes until we left town and I began wondering what those hands would have felt like.</blockquote>

[QUOTE="kaya, post: 2710731, member: 242760"] Hi, this is an excerpt from a longer piece that I'm working on. I was wondering if I could get some feedback on what to improve, if it flows well, etc. Proofreading would be great :) ---- I often wonder what it would be like to have a short-lived escapade with an older man. He would be the kind that rushes past sidewalk traffic with purpose, in a suit beneath an overcoat that leaves much to the imagination. The kind that lets me sit on his lap with his arms wrapped around me and my head nestled beneath his jaw. I want him to wince the first time I call him “daddy”; to tell me I don’t have to try that hard. His beard could be greying and his eyes stale, haunted by failed pursuits and vapid relationships. But above all, I want him to have my third grade teacher’s hands. It occurred to me last summer’s road trip as we drove through the small town he grew up in and spoke fondly of. I remembered how he later returned as my eighth grade English teacher, still warm, though not as meek and fresh as he once was. He would call us to his desk individually to provide feedback on our short stories; each time he looked up, I would panic and my eyes darted around his for mere seconds before settling on his hands – sturdy with gently curved fingers; adorned by a silver wedding band. I never quite understood why I couldn’t look him in the eyes until we left town and I began wondering what those hands would have felt like. [/QUOTE]

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