[ Katrina has been fielding texts from Treavor all day, though she has resigned herself to the obligation of tending to all the chores and errands she has been neglecting, ha - for precisely this reason. Treavor, and his messages. All of them may be blamed for her preoccupation, her indolence, the way every task takes three times as long: she is even now leaning against a tree near the back awning of their (oh, their!) (or not theirs, but not-theirs together!) house, smiling at each new line of text.
But they are so distracting.
It's distracting to be the center of attention. To be adored again. (And openly! Oh, openly adored! Remember how he looked at her beneath that tree, and Newell disclosed to her that Treavor turned the conversation her way a time or four. I know an enamored man when I see one, he'd said. He would know! He, enamored with Johanna!) Her heart pounds with every buzzing alert, though she thinks forlornly that she wishes Saturday would hurry and arrive. ]
Oh, I need nothing at all to keep me from tiring of you! (The husband beside me forever!)
And no, Dearest, I have not yet granted you immortality. There is a trick to it: it must be given with a kiss, in a particular time and place. I will not tell you where, for fear you might go without me and try to seek it from another. Then where will I be? Doomed to live forever without you, watching you enjoy eternity with someone you perhaps like better?
(Silly, I know. Who could you possibly like better than me? Who could I like better than you? We misanthropic pair, we have found one another and are happily carrying on without any impositions from those without.)
Ah ha, I misread your message and at first thought you said 'I'm feeling pretty'! And you are pretty, but that would be my reason for 'flipping'. Or any crude gesture at all.
Now, let me think. Is Deforest Scarlett the one with the very buoyant hair? Surely he had nothing of interest to say. His insults and insinuations are like jellied daggers.
no subject
But they are so distracting.
It's distracting to be the center of attention. To be adored again. (And openly! Oh, openly adored! Remember how he looked at her beneath that tree, and Newell disclosed to her that Treavor turned the conversation her way a time or four. I know an enamored man when I see one, he'd said. He would know! He, enamored with Johanna!) Her heart pounds with every buzzing alert, though she thinks forlornly that she wishes Saturday would hurry and arrive. ]
Oh, I need nothing at all to keep me from tiring of you! (The husband beside me forever!)
And no, Dearest, I have not yet granted you immortality. There is a trick to it: it must be given with a kiss, in a particular time and place. I will not tell you where, for fear you might go without me and try to seek it from another. Then where will I be? Doomed to live forever without you, watching you enjoy eternity with someone you perhaps like better?
(Silly, I know. Who could you possibly like better than me? Who could I like better than you? We misanthropic pair, we have found one another and are happily carrying on without any impositions from those without.)
Ah ha, I misread your message and at first thought you said 'I'm feeling pretty'! And you are pretty, but that would be my reason for 'flipping'. Or any crude gesture at all.
Now, let me think. Is Deforest Scarlett the one with the very buoyant hair? Surely he had nothing of interest to say. His insults and insinuations are like jellied daggers.
[...]
Floppy.