Author's Note: While I toil away at, "Asleep in the Snow," I wrote this short drabble (by very loose definition of the word) about a few of our favorite characters.
Enjoy.
She tastes like black licorice. The flavor has never appealed to him before this very moment, when their lips meet, when the moon above illuminates them so perfectly. It seems to last a hundred lifetimes of mouth and heart, a shared warmth radiating outwards. He comes to realize in that fleeting, infinitesimal millisecond, that many things have changed.
But that was life. Not for her, in its cruel irony, but for him. Though a hundred thoughts have exploded and settled like dust in his churning head, one is at the forefront. It's quite silly. She's black licorice. She is like black licorice. Black licorice. It's a nauseating thing to be, but honest. And straightforward. With the capacity to surprise you should you let it. That is who she is - her unique identity.
And then there is red licorice. The enticing, ever-present temptation to give way to the familiar, if only to prevent oneself from lapsing into unknown territory. It's a comfortable cycle of confusion and withheld feelings - some true, most false. But the red licorice belongs to the people. It is not for him to treasure alone. Try as he may, he can do nothing more. She is in his comfort zone but out of reach, and, soon enough, out of mind.
A kiss in the dead of night, with the dead of the night.
The bitter black has taken red's place.
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