Flat-Footed Washi Paper [Weekly Short-Short Note]

"I think I might quit calligraphy."
"Why?"
"Because my handwriting is bad. Everyone says it's flat and lacks any depth."
"You shouldn't let things like that bother you."

Even though he, the son of the calligraphy teacher who could manipulate the pressure of his brush to write elegant characters, tried to stop me, it only made me feel more miserable.

"It's fine, it's true. I even think so myself—that my handwriting is like my own flat feet."
"That's not true. It just means your brushwork is careful and dignified."
"...Don't be so kind to me."

I blurted out, as if to reject him.
I was aware of it. I didn't like that he, with his delicate, refined features like washi paper, was always looking out for me, and I knew that people were talking behind my back because of it.

"I don't need your pity."
"It's not pity. I like you—your handwriting, and you as well."

I flinched at his straightforward gaze.
But someone flat-footed like me couldn't be a match for someone like him, who was like washi paper—

"I'd rather you step on my face with those flat feet."

It wasn't pity; it was lust.
Should I splash some ink on him?