All expectations make her heart feel numb
An argument rested itself on her tongue, a huff and widening of her nostrils giving sway to a pending quarrel, but then her eyes darted downward, as if she truly had no more to say. Nothing that would likely segment him away anyway, to bombard with wayward adornments. It would be terribly rude to deny the gift; she knew that. Her parents had raised her better than a eldritch abomination, than a petty, insignificant little speck, but some days she truly was ash and dust. Her family already was.
But then he didn’t open hers, and there seemed to be some sort of stalemate. Another furrowing of her brows followed, as if she couldn’t quite contemplate where to gain the upper hand, and in the end, seemed resigned to the acceptance, the swallowing fate. “You’re welcome,” she obliged; but the words were toneless, empty, waiting until he opened it before deciding if it had been a good idea or not.
Thereafter, the glance receded to the gift in her lap, and she gingerly, hesitantly, began to pluck at the edges. Her fingers lined along the creases, gently pulling them apart, until the smaller packages came to light, and there was more to the order of things. Eventually, painstakingly, carefully, she came to find the three throwing knives, all serrated and edged and lovely, and the hairbrush, ornamental and adorned.
Her knees drew themselves up against her chest, the throne much less now; hiding the smile and delight behind her limbs, the choked back nuances of so many other manifestations. “Thank you,” she whispered, struggling not to burst at the seams from a streamline of bizarre emotions she had difficulty naming. “Your turn.”
But then he didn’t open hers, and there seemed to be some sort of stalemate. Another furrowing of her brows followed, as if she couldn’t quite contemplate where to gain the upper hand, and in the end, seemed resigned to the acceptance, the swallowing fate. “You’re welcome,” she obliged; but the words were toneless, empty, waiting until he opened it before deciding if it had been a good idea or not.
Thereafter, the glance receded to the gift in her lap, and she gingerly, hesitantly, began to pluck at the edges. Her fingers lined along the creases, gently pulling them apart, until the smaller packages came to light, and there was more to the order of things. Eventually, painstakingly, carefully, she came to find the three throwing knives, all serrated and edged and lovely, and the hairbrush, ornamental and adorned.
Her knees drew themselves up against her chest, the throne much less now; hiding the smile and delight behind her limbs, the choked back nuances of so many other manifestations. “Thank you,” she whispered, struggling not to burst at the seams from a streamline of bizarre emotions she had difficulty naming. “Your turn.”
MABEL
