“Well, no, my father is a Benevolent. Was. Not me.” This seems an important distinction to make. Surely a man with crippling stage fright, a man like Mateo, married to his shame, was an embarrassment to his kind. “Otherwise, you are correct. And Jasmine suits you swimmingly.” He grins widely, shuffles his feathers (not because he noticed her looking, at least not entirely), pretends he’s not just a little disappointed she guessed so well. Kicks himself, mentally, for using the word “swimmingly” which now sits (or, perhaps, sinks?) awkwardly in the chill air.
Then comes hers, although there is only one that really catches his attention and holds it, distracts him from the others. See, to a young man like himself, thirty three is a baffling number of times to be in love.
Then he wonders how loosely she defines “love.” There was storybook love, the kind that only happened once in one’s life, maybe twice… possibly thrice, if it was one of those redundant stories where everything happened in threes… but thirty-three times? It was not possible unless she was immortal or cursed, and Mateo was not positive he believed in such things. But there were other types of loves. Ones that came and went like the seasons. Temporary loves but no less sweet, one would argue– particularly if one had not experienced the type which inspired stories.
(In fact, hadn’t he been in love just the night before, with that delightful bottle of strawberry wine? A shame his love had been stolen away by his thirst. The traitor!)
But to count those loves, to hold on to each and every one of them until you arrived at such a grand and precise number as thirty three? Well, it gives a man hope of being number thirty four. If it’s true, of course. Which Mateo does not believe it is.
“You are a Benevolent.” He had never seen anyone with such a combination of beauty, grace, and inaccessibility. Mesnyi was like a song made flesh. If she was not a Benevolent, it was because she did not wish to be. (you could choose, couldn’t you? he didn’t know much about his father’s people) “Your name is Jasmine.” He is not entirely sure about this anymore. Having heard her say the name three times now, it had begun to take on a strange shape in his mind, like when you write a word down so many times it suddenly seems ridiculous that those letters should combine into such sounds. But he stuck with his gut instinct that it was true. He had yet to learn that, unlike many others, Mateo’s intuition was not something that could be trusted. And anyway, she had offered the name before they even started the game.
“And you have not been in love thirty three times.” He bites his lip, knowing the game means nothing but dearly hoping to win. The game has so consumed him, he has even forgotten to flirt.
- - -
@Mesnyi <3
