"I know," he answers, looking away - into the middle distance, away from the curve of her shoulder as he remembers the film star she dressed as, once; finger waves and dancing Charleston under a blinking streetlight. (She wasn't half-bad, he remembers, and he grins at the thought, grateful her eyes are distracted by the sudden glow of her smartphone screen.)
He smiles, differently, and continues. "It's different, now. She's not around, and you don't mean to lose touch, but -"
"-so it goes," she says, finishing his sentence and thinking she should do the same.
Go.
They are still strangers, for all their common ground, and this no-man's land where they've met isn't fit for long conversations.
"She's doing well, though," she says, rocking off her heels and standing straight. "Busy past all reckoning, but well. It's really good to see."
He's not her type (too fey too flighty too focused) but her heart or something close to it lightens as his smile warms and he meets her eyes. He doesn't do a lot of that, she thinks - but then, she's a very black pot herself.
Forty minutes, and they're still talking in the half-light from his flat's window - company is the key here, and there's a shift in the balance between them that hints at respect and uncertainty (she's not his type, either.) They'll puzzle it out one day. Sunlight is good for that. For now, the half-light and half-sentences are a code: listen; hear me, though the notes have changed.
if you fly on broken wings
cardboard cut-outs tied with strings
from phony played-out ouija boards
i'll sing for you in major chords
'cause it's not the end of the world
just yet -
...and no, this song isn't about you. ^_~ It's a short snippet from Closed Tuesdays, my NaNo that sprawled well past the deadline and lives in semi-peace in scribblers under my bed and on my shelves. This little bit's been dancing around since summer and wanted some air. Purple italics belong to Danny Michel; purplish prose is mine.
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