Disclaimer: Cannot claim to own any of this. It's all Burton's take on Alice's Adventures/Through the Looking Glass, and Johnny's take on the Hatter and different other characters he's played.
Alice catches glimpses of the Hatter. Six glimpses of him, to be precise. And all of them impossible. Burton's Alice, with references to several other Depp movies. Alice/Hatter, 100 words each segment.
Her face is to the wind, watching a butterfly. Over her shoulder, a crewman struts across the deck of the ship Wonder. A burst of laughter, a clatter of beads, and the shine of several gold teeth make her think of hatpins and ribbons and 10-over-6.
He catches a glimpse of her watching him, and dips into a wide, sweeping bow, paired with a boyish smile.
Why is a raven like a writing desk?
She cannot help but smile in return, even if the smile is a wry refusal. She knows that glimpses aren't enough. Enough, but not the whole.
The cool evening of Hong Kong brings tendril-hands of hookah smoke wafting on the breeze. She coughs, waves her hands before her face, dispelling the thick of it.
A man is sprawled on a couch just inside a den, dozing with a smoking pipe in his hands. She holds her breath as she passes by, and remembers the first - second - time she went to the tea party.
We were obliged to wait for you, seeing as it was your turn.
Opium isn't tea. She doesn't glance back to see if the smoker has woken to look for her.
He's a pale man, and nervous-looking. Alice almost completely walks past him, but cannot help but stop and stare at him, and the woman he has hanging off his arm. Neither of them seem suited for this climate, but then, neither is Alice. She's glad she gave up stockings. She can't disregard the heat as easily as these two can.
They look so happy together, like newlyweds. Lucky things.
Alice… Have I gone mad?
I'm afraid so. Completely bonkers.
She's gripped with jealousy for a moment, and then feels cold, and lost, and bites her lip to hide the smile.
The servants don't like serving tea with milk and sugar. Here, they have it straight: leaves soaked in hot water. Still, she is English enough to demand her comforts. Milk and sugar it is.
You're terribly late you know, naughty girl.
A box of chocolates is delivered to the office where she lives. There is no return address, no indication of the sender, and the servants didn't see who left it on the windowsill.
But she knows. She pops one of them in her mouth, and savours the sweetness, the bitterness, the tartness.
She has one every day, at teatime.
She catches a glimpse of a tailor as she passes a window. She has to stare. For a moment, she sees him wielding two pairs of scissors. The tools move like extensions of his own hands; the silk parts like cake un-cut.
It feels good to be working at my trade again.
The tailor looks up, sees her through the window. It could be him, but it isn't - his eyes aren't green. She looks a moment longer through the glass, then moves on.
Later that day, she buys a hat and puts it on the mantle. Waiting for him.
She feels like she's gone around the bend. Down the rabbit hole was bad enough; she forgot everything and had to start all over again. But it's a wonderful feeling.
His suitcases are filled with half-finished hats - all for her - and broken teapots. What else would he bring? He's got no need to start over: he can pick up precisely where he left off.
You'd have to be half-mad to dream up me.
"But I didn't dream you up," she says.
He taps her on the end of her nose. "Talking to yourself. A sure sign of madness."