She listens to him talk, her grin widening as he lists the many things that do, in fact, make him rather interesting. She’s about to respond but then he adds the part about his daughter, and her smile slips away. ”I’m sorry,” she says, knowing it’s not remotely enough, but it is all she can offer. And she means it. She does not always say sorry to all deaths. It is silly, foolish, more often than not. An empty word. Yet in this moment, she cannot stay silent. She looks him over, wondering just how old he actually is. He doesn’t look old, near enough to her age, and yet he seems to have lived for lifetimes. ”What was her name?” she asks, though will understand if he chooses not to answer. She always prefers to talk of the dead though, to let them live on in memory if nothing else.
She looks to the Hels as he does, noting how they seem to be growing restless, and she nods. She turns herself around, leaving the horizon to her back now, and begins to make her way back to the shore. The waves push her forward lightly, and she revels in the feel of it. Her eyes fall to the wagon he has mentioned. ”A mobile home? I like it.” The idea is appealing, even if she loves her home too much to leave it forever. Still, she can understand the appeal.
She looks to the Hels as he does, noting how they seem to be growing restless, and she nods. She turns herself around, leaving the horizon to her back now, and begins to make her way back to the shore. The waves push her forward lightly, and she revels in the feel of it. Her eyes fall to the wagon he has mentioned. ”A mobile home? I like it.” The idea is appealing, even if she loves her home too much to leave it forever. Still, she can understand the appeal.
weaver
-- kiss you like a whiskey fire --
