D U N E
- ☾ -
S
he takes a step back, a small one, and the space between them seems suddenly vast… but she bridges that gap, somehow, with her long-lashed gaze. Dune finds himself speechless.
A pensive quiet sits between them, not exactly uncomfortable, before being broken by a quiet rustle. One of the strays had awoken from his nap in the palm husks (Dune used them to package ceramics and other fragile things for transport) and emerged from the small pile with an overly luxurious stretch. Spying a new victim, the little orange cat begins to rub back and forth against the mare’s legs with a happy little chirrup.
Dune finds himself simultaneously embarrassed, annoyed, and admittedly a little jealous. Little traitor, I thought you only did that to me. “Tsst, stop that now,” The cat, of course, pays him not even the slightest attention. Quite the opposite-- he begins to purr heartily, and press against the lady’s legs with excessive vigor. Dune puts down the broken pieces of the water clock he had been working with. His annoyance and jealousy grows to a level he’s acutely aware is irrational. “I’m so sorry about that, miss. Always in the way, damn cats.”
(Surely they’d be less in the way if he didn’t provide them food, water, and a dozen nooks and crannies to snooze in. Dune pretended not to care for the cats, but really they were the closest friends he had. If asked about it he would fiercely deny they had names, that would be too sentimental… but the little orange making a scene right now? That’s Mango.)
Since speaking to strangers (it was a whole story in and of itself, the whys and hows of his flirtation with mutism) Dune had found it surprisingly easy to charm. Lying, too, came quickly and without effort. So the sudden loss of words before this brown(blue? He doesn’t want to look closely)-eyed girl is particularly uncomfortable for the boy.
He could, of course, just leave her to browse-- and, inevitably, drift away once more. But he has the distinct sensation that would be a loss of some sort. “Where are you from?” He asks, grasping for something to say. Surely she’s not from here… he would have remembered her.
And what on earth are dreams if not our only way of speaking?
