At first I didn’t notice there was something wrong.
(Maybe wrong is incorrect-- or just too harsh-- if one is talking about someone else’s body. How could any natural thing be wrong?)
There was too much else to notice. The golden egg-yolk of her hooves (walking on sunshine), the wild, tangled, black and white of her hair, the piercing blue of her eyes. It wasn’t until she said her name, “Maret,” that I noticed the heave of her lungs, the rasp of her breath.
In that moment I became sharply aware of my own breath, and I marveled at how easily it came and went without me needing to think about it. It was something I had always taken for granted, like the beat of my heart, or the curl of my eyelashes.
I found myself suddenly shy, so overcome with the desire to ask “what’s wrong with you” yet suspecting it might be one of those questions she lived in dread of answering. I had my own questions of this nature, questions heavy, clunky, burning; unasked but undeniably present, lingering like perfume in the still air. “Why did you stay?” or (worse, for its inaccuracy) “Why were you left behind?” Even, some days, I dreaded to hear “How are you?”
Sometimes the simplest questions were the hardest. The truth, which I felt I owed the world, was not always pleasant. Certainly not always comfortable.
Beneath the weight of my unasked question, I managed to say “I’m Aspara.” A nice, awkward silence came over us then. I was used to others breaking that silence, but Maret seemed just as incompetent as me when it came to such things. I suppose there was a kind of camaraderie in that. It was mostly just uncomfortable, and I wondered if I should keep walking...
But then she said “I like your wolf,” and my smile, which I had been withholding for god’s know what reason, gushed suddenly like water breaking the walls of a dam. I couldn’t help it. I liked my wolf too.
Meanwhile, Furfur bristled at the comment. “I’m as much his as he’s mine.” It felt important to clarify that, and I felt him relax instantly. I had seen all manner of pet for sale in the night markets-- snakes, dogs, birds. On occasion, and to my great dismay, a seller would have miniature dragons, in cages so tight they could hardly turn around. But Furfur was not just a pet, a hound, to be fed and housed and used, like a tool. Our relationship was not transactional.
“His name is Furfur.” I was not yet old enough to think that, perhaps, it was a poor choice of name. Anyway I don’t think Furfur could care less what I called him, as long as I was consistent; and anyway we were both strangely drawn to that name, so to hell with what anyone else thought of it. “My sister and I rescued him and his brother.” I nudged him in an attempt to get him to step forward and say hi, but he remained stoic and resolute at my side. I had the very strong sense he was not about to offer the stranger his sleek coat to be pet, like a dog, and there was nothing I could do to convince him otherwise. Oh well.
I was feeling more comfortable-- any mention of my sister instantly lifted my spirits-- and I found I had more and more questions about the girl which were far more appropriate to ask than “what’s wrong with you?” But first, a complement. It was my understanding that when you received a compliment, you should return one in kind. I was skeptical about social currencies like these, but I had not yet formed a solid opinion on the matter, so for the mean time I went along with it (if a little grudgingly). “You’re very pretty.”
It was the first thing that came to mind.
Pleasantries aside, I dove into the first question I wanted to ask. “So, where are you from?”
@Maret :D
