it's a lovely day!

his nonchalance is made less convincing and more cruel by the hand ozzie leaves pressed to his cheek, just where the warmth of richard’s parting kiss lingers pleasantly. ‘ — ye-es. what of him? ’

     ‘ what of him-- why, you!-- ’ her hands flap uselessly at her sides, up and down. for no discernible reason in the slightest, her volume drops straight into an agitated stage whisper, the kind she uses when ethan has asked a particularly ill-timed question, too-loud, in temple. maybe it’s as if, even as far-off as he is already, she’s afraid richard might hear her. she thanks the lord for powder, anyway, on account of the risen blush hidden safely beneath it. she’s flustered. she isn’t angry, per say-- but frustration is apparent. flustration! 

charlie matches her beat for beat, part for part, tooth for tooth. even his intonation is a perfect echo of mary’s. ‘ you don’t take me for a sap, do you? ’

     when a loop of static finally stretches long enough between songs, mary takes it upon herself to twist the volume down to a murmur. the twist to her mouth pulls in time with the draw of her brow. in short, she isn’t all that impressed. 

@freamed

The thirty-three sheep fill the dirt road like fog. Fog with a mass. A car honks at the sheep. A stiff, short honk. Like the person inside is angry but doesn’t want to scare the sheep. The honk doesn’t scare the sheep. If it did, it would not matter. The sheep will not, would not, move; they like paths. A third of the sheep turn their head’s to look at the sound. A lazy, instinctual response.

Pluto knows we are all a shepherd of something. They wonder what he must be a shepherd of. And why he is shepherding so fast. He must have lost a lot of what he is guiding–hastiness loses flocks.

Pluto stops walking. Stands in place. Lets the car stroll by them until they are next to the driver’s window. They match the car’s pace (this is easy, the sheep have lulled the car into a crawl). He looks like a city boy. Fine, clean suit. Hair slick from gel and not rain or grease. Pluto grins, amused and not caring to hide it.

          “Are my sheep slowing you? Where must you go that you must go there so fast?”

     sheep. dozens of them. countless smears of white gone gray in the dusk.

     the herd is an expanse that runs as thick and wool-y as clouds sitting low on a mountain. yes, except this isn’t a mountain. this is a back-road. the place, here and now, is very much the outskirts of the city, the outskirts of the countryside, meaning: there are no farmlands. not here. there are no other cars, either, and yet-- and yet!-- here he sits, two miles into antsville ( sheepsville? ) with no end in sight. it’s not common. he’s halfway to another staccato honk when their leader bends their spine to loom at his open window. 

     the laugh he offers is as clipped as his horn. 

     ‘ they certainly aren’t getting me anywhere. ’ 

     he is, at the least, polite enough to keep his eyes on the congested roadway as he speaks. can’t afford any red on his ledger, see. his conscience, either. ( ah, he does have a heart. the gossip columns would be scandalized by the notion, as would his mother, too, perhaps. half the continent, actually, while we’re at it. ) he brakes gently at the sharp, sudden step in from a sheep at his left headlight. his fingers tighten tellingly, agitatedly against the wheel. 

     he doesn’t quite answer the question. ‘ where is it that they must go so slow? ’ 

     midge is halfway through a dinner roll, a butter knife in hand, when she spots him. five feet and eleven inches of rug cutting comedy topped by springy, reddish blonde. only ten feet from their booth, danny kaye comes to a patient stop at the host’s stand. ‘ shit. ’ she isn’t watching when she butters her bread, which is why it takes a proper glance at her plate to realize she’s spread it on her hand, instead. ‘ shit. ’ she makes move to cover her face, thoroughly pre-embarrassed, remembers the butter, and grabs for a paper napkin instead.