05-11-2020, 09:31 PM
It’s okay, she thinks, because even if he’s sad she can be happy enough for both of them.
Even if he’s sad, she’ll find some way to make him smile.
And it is more than youth that allows her to believe this. It is some insufferable naivety, too. And, while she will grow out of her youth, she will likely never grow out of this.
She nods solemnly in response to his question. But she recognizes his tone as the kind of tone adults use to appease children, which makes her deer’s heart spasm and clench. Because she is small, certainly, but she doesn’t feel like a child. Still, she smiles. And he smiles, too, or tries to. It’s hard to tell when he’s all made of shadow and smoke and those red, red eyes.
She tilts her funny little head at a funny little angle, narrows her eyes studiously. Maybe if she gets close enough she can bump him, just to see if he’s solid, because he looks like he might dissolve and she thinks that would make her sad, too.
He shares his name and she brightens considerably, positively beaming when she echoes his name back to him. “Torryn!” she says, perhaps too loud, too enthusiastic, too unhinged. Stamps her little cloven feet and lets loose a shrill laugh. “My name is Dear!”
She turns in one tight circle before coming to rest again, a bit nearer to him now. She reaches for him, but stops just short of touching him. “You have to be something,” she says, as if she is any authority on the subject, “don’t you?”
Even if he’s sad, she’ll find some way to make him smile.
And it is more than youth that allows her to believe this. It is some insufferable naivety, too. And, while she will grow out of her youth, she will likely never grow out of this.
She nods solemnly in response to his question. But she recognizes his tone as the kind of tone adults use to appease children, which makes her deer’s heart spasm and clench. Because she is small, certainly, but she doesn’t feel like a child. Still, she smiles. And he smiles, too, or tries to. It’s hard to tell when he’s all made of shadow and smoke and those red, red eyes.
She tilts her funny little head at a funny little angle, narrows her eyes studiously. Maybe if she gets close enough she can bump him, just to see if he’s solid, because he looks like he might dissolve and she thinks that would make her sad, too.
He shares his name and she brightens considerably, positively beaming when she echoes his name back to him. “Torryn!” she says, perhaps too loud, too enthusiastic, too unhinged. Stamps her little cloven feet and lets loose a shrill laugh. “My name is Dear!”
She turns in one tight circle before coming to rest again, a bit nearer to him now. She reaches for him, but stops just short of touching him. “You have to be something,” she says, as if she is any authority on the subject, “don’t you?”
DEAR
CAREFUL, CHILD, LIGHT THE FUSE AND GET AWAY
BECAUSE HAPPINESS THROWS A SHOWER OF SPARKS
BECAUSE HAPPINESS THROWS A SHOWER OF SPARKS