I absorbed the style of your night, your courage like a good-sized cocker spaniel, crouched and hackles raised, ready to protect you at a moment’s notice.
But you don’t need protecting, do you, with your prodigious smile and thick intentions, hogging all the finger sandwiches at the Banquet of Forlorn and Spurned Lovers?
My, how you haven’t grown, remarked the 135-year old woman, frail and blue. It was true enough, though you rejected her words like you rejected me year ago.
You moved with the the speed of paper cut, small but fast, redolent with outsized pain while the rest of us redrew our maps, marking off the places deemed too dangerous.