Jean looked up at Kieran, the wet strands of his hair youthfully and messily splattered to his cheeks. It had become disheveled from nervous toying with. Now they clamped to his book, white knuckled, but hidden beneath the baggy sleeves of his silk robe.
For the truth of that moment he had never admitted to Kieran. That his gall and charm in that moment were someone else's hand. He was nothing but a coward.
Uh, sure,he managed. Kieran's familiar perfumed oils swam around him, teasing him with the memories they brought back. Perhaps, for this, he felt defeated in repelling his old friend. He couldn't push the very air away. He shifted to the side in armchair, which was large enough to be a small loveseat. He set the book on the table and took the drink from Kieran mechanically. But he held it on his lap and looked at it sorrowfully.
You mean, Giada's Birthday Party,he asked, feeling flubbish, awkward, like the memory were a red pimple.
For the truth of that moment he had never admitted to Kieran. That his gall and charm in that moment were someone else's hand. He was nothing but a coward.
04-03-2024, 12:29 PM
