The thing about Ann though was that sometimes she was mean, but not really mean. She was impatient and lost her temper easily. Dorothy always said she had a heart made of fire. Michael once asked Jean why Ann always cried when she got angry during an argument. Jean had laughed and said it was because she was trying to put herself out. Ann kicked Jean in the shin.
Michael believed Ann was fire. She was explosive and angry, but she was also warm. Ann came home with a busted lip once, blood dried on her chin. Dorothy had been there in an instant, titling her chin up towards the kitchen light to get a better look. Ann brushed off the concern, saying it wasn't as bad as it looked. Dorothy gave Ann her 'I don't believe a word you just said' look and Ann crumbled. Ann then told Dorothy how she had taken Michael to the market. It had been cold, Michael in layers and wearing his extra warm mittens. Ann had been sixteen at the time, Michael six. Ann was distracted, bartering with a grumpy old man that smelled like tobacco and sweat. She didn't know Michael had picked up the jar, not until she heard a loud crash and an even louder wail. Michael was staring down at his feet, the broken glass and juice splashed on the concrete and up his legs. He was hiccuping and sniffling loudly, babbling out apologies when Ann had went and grabbed his hand, pulling him away from the mess and checking to see if he was hurt. He wasn't, just scared.
The grumpy old man she had been bartering with looked mad, his face the shade of an overripe tomato. The man's business partner, however, looked sympathetic. She offered to take Michael to the back of their store to clean him up and dry his clothes. It wouldn't take long since what he was wearing was water-resistant so Ann agreed, watching as the old woman held Michael's hand gently, listening to Michael's sniffles fade as the woman offered him a cookie.
Once they were gone, Ann had turned back to the old man. He told her she would have to pay for the jar. Ann agreed, cringing internally as she didn't have that much money to begin with, but knew she had to pay for it. She had been fishing in her pockets for her cash while the old man had turned back to the booth they had set up outside of their shop. He was a good distance away from her, but not far enough away for her to not hear his scratchy voice complain to one of his patrons about 'stupid, retarded children and their whore moms not watching them.' Ann had seen red, stuffing the money back into her pocket as she confronted the old piece of shit, calling loudly, 'What the fuck did you just say?' She had gotten up close to him, anger palatable in the frigged air. He shoved her back, telling her to 'back the fuck up, you bitch.' Ann had then proceeded to tear the man a new one, calling him a slew of names, spitting cures like hot coals, saying that if he dared to say anything about her little brother again, she'd rearrange his face. She was in the middle of a curse when he backhanded her, her lip splitting and blood pooling in her mouth.
No one stopped her when she broke his nose.
She then proceeded to walk inside the shop, take Michael's hand gently where he was sitting, fully clothed and dry on a counter, happily munching on a cookie. She thanked the old woman for her kindness, quietly waving off the concern over her lip as to not worry Michael. She then suggested that she find a new business partner before walking out the door, Michael's hand held tightly in hers.
Dorothy just sighed, cleaning up Ann's face with a warm dishcloth, promising that she'd take Jean with her tomorrow to pick up the shopping that Ann and Michael didn't get. Ann smiled, kissing her sister on the cheek and taking Michael upstairs to change him out of his winter clothes.
Ann's love was bright and all consuming.