Things are sweeter when they're lost. I know--because once I wanted something and got it. It was the only thing I ever wanted badly, and when I got it it turned to dust in my hand.
E
ven with an attempt of humor, Pravda’s mind revolves around the moral implications—around what it means, the symbolism of his own color. But she rewards him with a small smile, warm and genuine, and then something far more grand: he watches as she theatrically tosses her head back and sighs, and watches in awe as her hair cascades down her shoulders and neck. Pravda is warm. He is warm all over, and all he can do is smile, a smile that is shy and a little awkward and wants nothing more than to make her smile that way again and again.“Already forgiven, Ms. Katerina.” Pravda remarks, but now he is serious. Now he studies her with a quiet, nearly analytic eye. The itching of her familiarity bothers him. And yet, speaking with her, meeting her eyes, Pravda still cannot discern why he feels as if he knows her. The small clearing gives way again to the thickness of the Viride. Pravda has walked it at nights when the moonlight does not penetrate the canopy, and the forest screams with creatures unseen and unknown.
Tonight, he hears only crickets and the grass and leaves breaking underfoot. The sweet, sweet smell of the crushed foliage, and her voice soft in the moonlight. Hm. Perhaps neither. It might be that the Earth is chasing them both.
She surprises him a second time in one night. He does not expect her answer, and when she adds, playfully: I wonder if you think I am more well-read than I am.
“That answer would solve many debates, wouldn’t it?” He smiles, briefly. “Would you like to decide the universe, Ms. Katerina? I think you would likely be a benevolent god, with good taste in literature.” This Pravda says with the utmost seriousness, however.
