Her smile is twisting into bitterness; she can feel it. Her lips are ticked up at the corners, yes, but her eyes glare into the red coals and smoke, watering. She can only hope her silence isn't correctly interpreted as sullen--take it for a quiet reverie on happy memories too personal to share, presume it's whole-hearted appreciative attention given to something she's forgotten how to feel, take it for anything pleasant at all--and goes unremarked by the--smug--tale-tellers.
We're happy, and here's how it came to be.
How nice for you.
Oh goodness, I remember this. I am sorry.
ReplyDeleteIt is beautifully written, though.