[ Wendy lacks the same kind of propensity for doors and liminal spaces (though there are moments when it seems like she could slip away into them, leaving behind an empty space where her tremulous smile used to be). She gasps faintly as the rose appears, and rather than picking it up by hand, she coaxes it into the air. It trembles an inch, two inches, above the sill, droplets of dew falling onto the wood. (How romantic, she thinks. Red red red the color of blood, thinks the thing inside her.)
But her body is hers, for the moment, and so she waits, busying herself with the small things she believes herself capable of. ]
Reed has no idea where he is, at first. He can hear the gentle wind outside. Branches knocking against a windowpane. Cloudy sunlight, cloaked by grey and the glimpse of colored houses. To his left, there's a bed; to his right, a full-length mirror. Reed hums lightly as he straightens the sleeves of his blazer. Pushes back his hair. He's armed with nothing, really, save his looks and a name. But names are powerful too.
Reed steps out of the house. It opens into the center of town-- a farmer's market, with stalls for honey and flowers and wicker baskets. There are wooden sculptures, a rocking horse, tiny seedlings in tinier pots; jams, scarves, hand-knit clothes. Two younger boys are kicking a ball around. Reed doesn't know what he's looking for, exactly, until the inner compass inside him feels that tug-- an apple rolls to his feet, knocks against his shoe. He picks it up.
[ She dreams of him in the shape of a door. The doorknob turns, locks click, and the door swings open. There's darkness behind her, and darkness ahead. But the darkness ahead, at least, has a name.
(The thing inside her is hungry. A door is a mouth. Its mouth is bigger.)
She dreams of him in his own shape.
There's no moment before she begins reaching for the fruit, fingers wrapping around each apple as she puts them into a basket. Then — a jar of honey, a jar of preserves, a figure of a saint. The basket fills, as do her arms. The shawl around her shoulders seems to grow, too. Maybe she's just imagining that. That same sensation of reaching spreads like lightning through her as she feels her whole balance shift, an apple toppling from its precarious place on top of the things she carries.
It stops at his feet. She stops a few steps back. ]
I'm sorry, I—
[ A pause, though it's not clear if it's because she's generally flustered or because she recognizes him. ]
You can have one, if you'd like. Not— not the one that just fell.
[ Opportunity, when given, is always taken. Where there is a door, you must open it. Reed smiles genially, throwing the apple up in the air. It's not a perfect globe— red, shining, but striped with a gradient of yellow — and when he catches it in his palm, he gives a little hum. Like there's reason to be impressed somehow, somewhere.
He takes a bite. The sound seems larger than it should be, that crunch of flat teeth against sour flesh. ]
Do you live here, little mouse? [ He barely even waits for her answer. ] I'm looking for a—
[ The sound startles her, though not to any noticeable degree. It's just — sharp, the way the colors of the apple suddenly seem to be. Vivid, bright, dangerous.
(Little mouse. The thing inside her bristles. But Wendy, for her part, takes it in stride. He's not wrong about what she is.) ]
—This way.
[ She gestures and begins walking at the same time; the option not to accompany him and merely give him directions never seems to occur to her. Yes, she lives here, she's lived here her whole life, but the days have been falling away until she no longer will. Because he's finally here.
As the heels of her shoes clack against the cobblestones, she casts a glance back at the stranger. ]
Is there a particular book you're looking for, sir?
Sir? [ He seems to laugh, even if it's only audible in the shape of his words. ] You can call me Reed, you know.
[ A loose amble, then. He seems perpetually half-a-step behind her, one hand tucked into the pocket of his slacks. Her shoes clack against the cobblestones, but Reed's remains silent. ]
There is, as a matter of fact.
[ There's a slight shuffle. The half-a-step catch-up, until he's walking together with her. It's remarkable, he thinks, how present she is. He can taste it in the fruit. The tartness in his throat, and how he has to clear it to get it away. ]
It's an Icelandic folk tale. The Knight and the Hours. Heard of it?
[ It feels improper to address him as such, but Wendy — as she is — has never been anything if not pliant. She glances over, almost skittish, as he catches up to her, though her gaze changes into something more like fascination, lingering a beat longer before she returns her attention to the winding street in front of her. ]
The Knight and the Hours, [ she repeats, the way she mulls over the words making it clear that they're unfamiliar to her. (It sounds melancholy to her — most things to do with the Hours do, to her — but she keeps that particular thought to herself.) Still— ] I don't believe I know it.
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SENT 4:36PM
Not far. Should I be where you are?
SENT 4:37PM
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SENT: 4:37PM
Pick a color: red or yellow?
SENT 4:39PM
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A red rose, still-thorned and wet with dew, materializes on a window-sill. Attached to it is a tag, looped by butcher's twine: ]
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But her body is hers, for the moment, and so she waits, busying herself with the small things she believes herself capable of. ]
prompt: meeting.
okay but is this a dream who KNOWS.
Reed has no idea where he is, at first. He can hear the gentle wind outside. Branches knocking against a windowpane. Cloudy sunlight, cloaked by grey and the glimpse of colored houses. To his left, there's a bed; to his right, a full-length mirror. Reed hums lightly as he straightens the sleeves of his blazer. Pushes back his hair. He's armed with nothing, really, save his looks and a name. But names are powerful too.
Reed steps out of the house. It opens into the center of town-- a farmer's market, with stalls for honey and flowers and wicker baskets. There are wooden sculptures, a rocking horse, tiny seedlings in tinier pots; jams, scarves, hand-knit clothes. Two younger boys are kicking a ball around. Reed doesn't know what he's looking for, exactly, until the inner compass inside him feels that tug-- an apple rolls to his feet, knocks against his shoe. He picks it up.
His eyes glint when they smile at the owner. ]
Too many things to carry, is it?
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(The thing inside her is hungry. A door is a mouth. Its mouth is bigger.)
She dreams of him in his own shape.
There's no moment before she begins reaching for the fruit, fingers wrapping around each apple as she puts them into a basket. Then — a jar of honey, a jar of preserves, a figure of a saint. The basket fills, as do her arms. The shawl around her shoulders seems to grow, too. Maybe she's just imagining that. That same sensation of reaching spreads like lightning through her as she feels her whole balance shift, an apple toppling from its precarious place on top of the things she carries.
It stops at his feet. She stops a few steps back. ]
I'm sorry, I—
[ A pause, though it's not clear if it's because she's generally flustered or because she recognizes him. ]
You can have one, if you'd like. Not— not the one that just fell.
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[ Opportunity, when given, is always taken. Where there is a door, you must open it. Reed smiles genially, throwing the apple up in the air. It's not a perfect globe— red, shining, but striped with a gradient of yellow — and when he catches it in his palm, he gives a little hum. Like there's reason to be impressed somehow, somewhere.
He takes a bite. The sound seems larger than it should be, that crunch of flat teeth against sour flesh. ]
Do you live here, little mouse? [ He barely even waits for her answer. ] I'm looking for a—
[ A pause. Reed hums again, considering. ]
—bookstore, I suppose.
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(Little mouse. The thing inside her bristles. But Wendy, for her part, takes it in stride. He's not wrong about what she is.) ]
—This way.
[ She gestures and begins walking at the same time; the option not to accompany him and merely give him directions never seems to occur to her. Yes, she lives here, she's lived here her whole life, but the days have been falling away until she no longer will. Because he's finally here.
As the heels of her shoes clack against the cobblestones, she casts a glance back at the stranger. ]
Is there a particular book you're looking for, sir?
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[ A loose amble, then. He seems perpetually half-a-step behind her, one hand tucked into the pocket of his slacks. Her shoes clack against the cobblestones, but Reed's remains silent. ]
There is, as a matter of fact.
[ There's a slight shuffle. The half-a-step catch-up, until he's walking together with her. It's remarkable, he thinks, how present she is. He can taste it in the fruit. The tartness in his throat, and how he has to clear it to get it away. ]
It's an Icelandic folk tale. The Knight and the Hours. Heard of it?
no subject
[ It feels improper to address him as such, but Wendy — as she is — has never been anything if not pliant. She glances over, almost skittish, as he catches up to her, though her gaze changes into something more like fascination, lingering a beat longer before she returns her attention to the winding street in front of her. ]
The Knight and the Hours, [ she repeats, the way she mulls over the words making it clear that they're unfamiliar to her. (It sounds melancholy to her — most things to do with the Hours do, to her — but she keeps that particular thought to herself.) Still— ] I don't believe I know it.