facelessarya
She tells them stories so they might relish the process of imagination. She tells them stories so they'll have something to remember when she's gone, and that will be all too soon. She likes the looks of wonder that surface on their childish faces, pink and naive, eyes widened with sweet, fragile wonder. The stories they will remember, perhaps, even after they've forgotten her.
The shuffling of his papers ensued. The awkward youth sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair opposite the counselor, her fingers tapping the armrests, knees pressed tightly together, upper molars grinding against bottom molars, the braids in her short hair loose and tickling her cheeks like crab grass on a hot summer day. No air conditioning.
The sound of her voice fluttering around fabricated words was intoxicating. Her mouth would curve graciously around each syllable, the crooked perk of her lips relishing in the secrets she was too reluctant to speak aloud.
The fluent sound of her voice uttering those strings of litanies made me teeter on acceptance, but her words were false and turned to ash on her tongue. She was a liar.
His hands felt leathery entwined with mine, rough and calloused from years of labor in the fields.
There is no such fatigue compared to the restless fatigue that is grief, eating, scratching at your stomach like a frightened, caged thing.