Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
Another snort rallied through chest and lungs. “Neither do I.” Glancing back at them, the sugar cookies really didn’t need icing, and it would certainly end in some other disastrous wake. Just looking around the current state of them, and the kitchen, between eggs and flour everywhere, the frosting would only add to the mayhem and bedlam. For now, he’d take the calm – little pockets of repose layered amongst chaos.
Indifferent to whether she sat on the counter or not, he followed through on the same, preferring to lean against its surface, bowl in its stately, neutral home in the middle of them. Half-tempted to purposefully whack his spoon against hers for no other reason than to be a nuisance, he reined it in by scooping along the sides, licking the concoction, content and satisfied. “They can stay like that.” No need for adornments or fanciful whims; he could only imagine what sort of things would arrive at the festival anyway.
On a train and trail of thought, as they sat and leaned in companionable silence (he’d take her admission proudly, but not rub it in her face), he snagged at a closer portion, and then inquired in his residual, habitual rumble. “What is your favorite color?”
