will you even notice
Aster squatted in front of the fire, allowing the softer, hushed tone of Farrow’s voice mold over the crackling of the flames. A gentle guiding wind on a hot summer’s day. Her hands adept and skillful, at least to his eyes - unafraid of the heat and knowing just when to move. The kettle made almost a squeal, like the cry of a hawkling, and she fed it like a mother Hawk would her little one.
As they stared at the kettle, Aster held the silence as she seemed to be asking. He muttered her name under his breath. “Farrow. Farrow. Farrow.” One of the first names he’d ever tried to remember. He didn’t want to forget. If she heard him mutter her name, he didn’t mind nor pay attention. His gaze, focused on the underside of the kettle, warmed by the flames.
It reminded him of Farrow’s hands, grazing the underside of his Hummingbelly, so he looked down at them. He wondered if they felt the same should he hold them in his now. Might they be just as soft and warm?
He watched her pour the hot tea into two cups, as they stayed crouched in front of the hearth. He didn’t want to move. He felt safe, right here. With the skirt and tunic around his neck and a lot of warmth he didn’t know he’d been craving.
He held the cup. It was hot, but not too hot. As he held it in his hands, however, he remembered the last time and upon holding it to his face, looked up in expectation at the woman in front of him, whose cheeks were lit by the light of the hearth. Whose eyes, he hadn’t paid attention to until now, almost as warm as everything else about her.
“Like this?” He asked, putting the cup to his pursed lips and taking a sip.
His face wrinkled, and nose scrunched up at the assault of a new type of flavor. It wasn’t bitter. Nor was it entirely sweet. He took another sip, and allowed the heat of the drink fill his insides, and bring more warmth to another part of his being. So this was tea.
His eyes gleamed with joy as he looked up at Farrow, content. “Wow.”
As they stared at the kettle, Aster held the silence as she seemed to be asking. He muttered her name under his breath. “Farrow. Farrow. Farrow.” One of the first names he’d ever tried to remember. He didn’t want to forget. If she heard him mutter her name, he didn’t mind nor pay attention. His gaze, focused on the underside of the kettle, warmed by the flames.
It reminded him of Farrow’s hands, grazing the underside of his Hummingbelly, so he looked down at them. He wondered if they felt the same should he hold them in his now. Might they be just as soft and warm?
He watched her pour the hot tea into two cups, as they stayed crouched in front of the hearth. He didn’t want to move. He felt safe, right here. With the skirt and tunic around his neck and a lot of warmth he didn’t know he’d been craving.
He held the cup. It was hot, but not too hot. As he held it in his hands, however, he remembered the last time and upon holding it to his face, looked up in expectation at the woman in front of him, whose cheeks were lit by the light of the hearth. Whose eyes, he hadn’t paid attention to until now, almost as warm as everything else about her.
“Like this?” He asked, putting the cup to his pursed lips and taking a sip.
His face wrinkled, and nose scrunched up at the assault of a new type of flavor. It wasn’t bitter. Nor was it entirely sweet. He took another sip, and allowed the heat of the drink fill his insides, and bring more warmth to another part of his being. So this was tea.
His eyes gleamed with joy as he looked up at Farrow, content. “Wow.”
when I'm not around?
Aster
