#undenial

"Ideally?" grinned into the gear loaded interior of an open Umbrella-patched duffel, sorting the cache within. From the bag, victorious and eager, his hands emerge, working a knife over the unchewed end of a pencil.

Curls of wooden shavings fall by his boots, going soggy in the damp, dank of the day. "You turn around, hand me that, and let me use your back to write on. I won't stick you with any kick me signs — promise."

        ❝ keep it together.  this place  ..  it's--  ..  i heard something. ❞   maria turns to one of the doors.  locked.  unlocked.  she doesn't know  -- she wouldn't go near it without his protection.   ❝ in there. ❞

       ❝ feeling sentimental ? ❞     when isn't he thinking about mary, she supposes.   given a moment to breathe, she seats herself on a box.   mary, mary, mary.   the name pricks at her, like salt in the wound.   she is, after all, a pale imitation of the real thing even when she insists otherwise.   it was a reality she refused to accept.   ❝ ugh  ..  my feet are  killing  me. ❞    she groans to no one in particular ; body lightly slumping and her fingers pressing against the back of her boots as if it might relieve her of the ache.

❝  oh,  did  you  really.  .  ?  ❞  palm  resting  on  her  chest  awestruck,  and   still  so  ever  in  love.  before  she  can  reach  to  touch  their  soft  petals,  she  feels  her  throat  constrict.  knuckles  breach  to  cover  her  mouth  before  another  coughing  episode.

they  said  it  was  just  the  common  cold,  but  why  does  she  taste  so  much  iron?