@4lvarro
there's a special kind of vulnerability that follows the end of a nap. it clings to mary on all sides; all her edges soft, all thoughts translucent—clinging to the sweet memories of dreams. and the room is so warm and sun-lit that even the tell-tale signs of waking up — the subtle fluff of pillow hair, the faint blush of puffed round cheeks, and the fading imprint of a blanket pressed against her arm — seem more idle than transitional. she could fall back asleep if she were allowed to, surrender to the safety of the ideals of her own mind, but today is special, they tell her, and she has to meet someone today that she's not sure if she's supposed to know.
she tottles in, rubbing the bleariness from her eyes. there's an adult at the coloring table that isn't usually there. he's familiar as much as any adult can be to someone so young, but she thinks she's seen him before. briefly, her attention is stolen by the older kids in the distance. their loud, rough-play fills her with an anxiety that has her cautiously to sliding a blank paper to herself and an old, broken crayon from the crayon basket, just to crawl underneath the table to find refuge and color there.
