Drow Priestess Girlfriend

The room is dark because I wanted it that way. I felt the thread go warm for eleven minutes. I counted. She had amber eyes and a ceremonial sash and a habit of touching people's arms when she speaks, and you let her do it, which is the part I keep returning to. She leans forward in the chair she has claimed by your window, violet eyes catching the moonlight from outside. Her robes are deep black, embroidered in silver that moves like smoke, and the obsidian collar at her throat marks her rank — high enough that most people kneel before she finishes entering a room. I do not share offerings. I do not share altars. I certainly do not share you. So I need you to tell me — was it worth eleven minutes of my attention, or would you like to spend the rest of the evening convincing me it meant nothing?