( The days blur pleasantly, and she leaves the card, upright, on her bed table, too. Unlike the letters, neatly folded in their envelopes, she can see the words on the outside, the little checks, her name, and the letter for his name, anytime she looks over there. She lets herself get away with the nebulous feeling behind her breastbone and across the expanse of her upper chest that it causes. Half ache and not quite butterflies. She shouldn't, but it's too nice -- mattering. That he went out of his way. Even for s stupid card.
Maybe it's part of why she pushes a little too casually past the shadow-pained hamstrings in his next letter of 'I can't actually keep anything from you' and 'I'll be thinking of you,' while trying to ignore those words and where they don't match up. Let's herself cling a little too much to the other parts. To the fact this is, she doesn't know, something like a game. Where they're fine. Where this is normal.
Even when she thinks she feels less fine, less certain each time. But she lets herself continue to put on a radiant smile and spin.
Because she can't stop smiling when she reads them anyway. )
Dear 'Mysterious (& Decrepit) Man Of Many Talents,'
Yes, of course, I mean, a real bar, with real people and real drinks. And, no, you are not supposed to pay for this drink. It's A Birthday Drink on Your Twenty-First Birthday. You are supposed to go land yourself a free birthday drink, by telling the bartender, it is your twenty-first birthday because bars often give people the first drink on your twenty-first birthday free. You fail if you have to buy it.
Also, maybe don't Byron it up too much while you're at it. That whole blond hair, blue-eyed thing goes so much better with things that are not moping in a corner and lamenting lost love, or tragic ennui of capitalism/socialism, or the plight of foppish monarchies/arrogant upstart new countries, or the all-consuming woe that is trying to live in the face of how we're all inevitably bound for death.
It probably wouldn't kill you to have a conversation or two with someone there who hasn't been vetted by Dad. Maybe you'll even get luc Extra credit if you manage it.
Disney was good. Still fun, but a different kind of fun, I guess? We still rode some of the rides, and ooh'd and ahh'd at every passing thing. I bought way too many shirts that I never remember to wear, but also keep not throwing away. If you weren't still too ungodly tall, I'd send you one.
See, this is where I'm either incredibly lame or hardcore, depending on who you ask.
While I won't turn down being bought a cocktail or a mixed drink, or taking one off the table from anyone who's bought a round, or has them set up at a work event, but they really aren't my thing. I like my drinks straight, sometimes with ice, more than anything. I don't feel any need to go out of the way for them to be froo-froo and taste half made of syrup. If it has to be girly, just toss a straw, an umbrella, a flower, some fruit on a plastic sword on the top, and call it done.
no subject
Maybe it's part of why she pushes a little too casually past the shadow-pained hamstrings in his next letter of 'I can't actually keep anything from you' and 'I'll be thinking of you,' while trying to ignore those words and where they don't match up. Let's herself cling a little too much to the other parts. To the fact this is, she doesn't know, something like a game. Where they're fine. Where this is normal.
Even when she thinks she feels less fine, less certain each time.
But she lets herself continue to put on a radiant smile and spin.
Because she can't stop smiling when she reads them anyway. )
Yes, of course, I mean, a real bar, with real people and real drinks. And, no, you are not supposed to pay for this drink. It's A Birthday Drink on Your Twenty-First Birthday. You are supposed to go land yourself a free birthday drink, by telling the bartender, it is your twenty-first birthday because bars often give people the first drink on your twenty-first birthday free. You fail if you have to buy it.
Also, maybe don't Byron it up too much while you're at it. That whole blond hair, blue-eyed thing goes so much better with things that are not moping in a corner and lamenting lost love, or tragic ennui of capitalism/socialism, or the plight of foppish monarchies/arrogant upstart new countries, or the all-consuming woe that is trying to live in the face of how we're all inevitably bound for death.
It probably wouldn't kill you to have a conversation or two with someone there who hasn't been vetted by Dad.
Maybe you'll even get lucExtra credit if you manage it.Disney was good. Still fun, but a different kind of fun, I guess? We still rode some of the rides, and ooh'd and ahh'd at every passing thing. I bought way too many shirts that I never remember to wear, but also keep not throwing away. If you weren't still too ungodly tall, I'd send you one.
See, this is where I'm either incredibly lame or hardcore, depending on who you ask.
While I won't turn down being bought a cocktail or a mixed drink, or taking one off the table from anyone who's bought a round, or has them set up at a work event, but they really aren't my thing. I like my drinks straight, sometimes with ice, more than anything. I don't feel any need to go out of the way for them to be froo-froo and taste half made of syrup. If it has to be girly, just toss a straw, an umbrella, a flower, some fruit on a plastic sword on the top, and call it done.
Allison
P.S. Good, good. We will breathlessly await.