She's got you there. It's written all over your face how not 'not anything' your thing actually is, but you have a hard-hearted image to maintain. Or something. Except that more and more you're finding that you look more like the warm young man you used to be, the one who laughed easily and made jokes and loved with his whole heart. It's gross, and you would like it to stop.
You grunt, still peering at your whiskey as though it might hold the secrets to the universe (and hey, maybe it does). "Not a lot t'tell." A lie. "Her name's Vervain- Vai. Met 'er durin' LongNight an' thought that was it, but... I dunno. I started runnin' inta her more, an' then it stopped bein' on accident, an' now sometimes I wake up an' she's still in my bed." You sound properly mystified by this, your brows knit together and your mouth pursed into something halfway between a frown and a smile.
Rising up from your booze at last, you flash Raza a helpless expression. "The fuck am I doin', Raz? I ain't- I'm a damned widower. I was s'posed t'grow old an'crochety alone, yellin' at kids t'get offa my lawn."
Oh, yes. The dream.
Zephyr
you can be the ripest, juciest peach in the world
and there's still going to be someone who hates peaches
and there's still going to be someone who hates peaches
