Madame Fitcher has a dozen smiles in her catalogue, and it's often obvious (in the way that a liar will sometimes playfully confess to being one) when she rifles through her cards and selects one to play rather than coming by it naturally.
But this one blooms rather being drawn. It's slow and crooked, and the wrinkles it makes are deeper for the dust and sweat. 'Narcissism' would be a cruel accusation. Instead, consider: pleased to be recognized.
The crook of his smile back at her is just as grungy -- less easily defined in the shadow of her hat, save that he seems to know what he’s wagering. Surely that’s part of the thrill, permeating as the queer pang at the back of his heart when she smiles at him. He lingers in the grass a beat before grunting back up onto one arm, and from his arm to his feet.
There’s still a hint of a hitch to his step, brush line (briefly) be damned.
Her hat goes with him, seated snug with an unapologetic glance back. His satchel stays behind.
A careworn blanket is cast rakish around his shoulders when he returns. It goes well with his hat, the grubby vacation bristle of his beard, the crystal held loose in his upturned palm for him to ask aloud:
“Would you like me to pursue her?”
And to receive an answer in Scoutmaster Yseult’s voice:
”What plan did the two of you make when she left?”
The look he cuts to Fitcher is expectant on the order of a cat left waiting outside of a glass door overnight with the unspoken promise that it intends to claw every piece of furniture it can reach the instant it’s let inside.
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Date: 2022-07-16 06:05 am (UTC)But this one blooms rather being drawn. It's slow and crooked, and the wrinkles it makes are deeper for the dust and sweat. 'Narcissism' would be a cruel accusation. Instead, consider: pleased to be recognized.
"I could make do with a blanket."
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Date: 2022-07-17 03:56 am (UTC)It feels a little terrible.
The crook of his smile back at her is just as grungy -- less easily defined in the shadow of her hat, save that he seems to know what he’s wagering. Surely that’s part of the thrill, permeating as the queer pang at the back of his heart when she smiles at him. He lingers in the grass a beat before grunting back up onto one arm, and from his arm to his feet.
There’s still a hint of a hitch to his step, brush line (briefly) be damned.
Her hat goes with him, seated snug with an unapologetic glance back. His satchel stays behind.
Camp isn’t far.
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Date: 2022-07-20 04:27 am (UTC)A careworn blanket is cast rakish around his shoulders when he returns. It goes well with his hat, the grubby vacation bristle of his beard, the crystal held loose in his upturned palm for him to ask aloud:
“Would you like me to pursue her?”
And to receive an answer in Scoutmaster Yseult’s voice:
”What plan did the two of you make when she left?”
The look he cuts to Fitcher is expectant on the order of a cat left waiting outside of a glass door overnight with the unspoken promise that it intends to claw every piece of furniture it can reach the instant it’s let inside.