MELITA
For a youth usually blunt and tenacious in her words, Melita found she didn’t have an accurate answer for Maea’s first inquiry. “I don’t know. I might be out at sea.” If her job, if her occupation, actually took hold, took root, gave her something to entangle and wrap herself around instead of wandering along and hurtling her staff at those she found irritating. “I’m sure you’ll find a way.” The notion was meant to be encouraging; there were other means and methods to communication, so the honeybee child assumed Maea would be able to enable a solution if Melita wasn’t around to accept the correspondence. Her eyes narrowed in speculation, in study, in skepticism as the pale woman turned upon her again. She was half-tempted to be a petulant brat again and say no; except she did know a lot about the subject, about the topic, held the callouses worn into her palms, had the strength of pulling the string taut and tight time and time again. “I do.” Likely more than Maea, which satisfied her mercurial whims for the moment.
help tonight to split its seams
Give the bruises out like gifts
Give the bruises out like gifts
