Phobias
Astounded by the question, even more so that he'd had to ask, Mary felt herself retorting the answer before she'd even considered it. "No, I do not have any fears, Herbert Alfred. Don't be so ridiculous."
He shrugged, leaning back in his chair by the window. The question had occurred to him while they were sitting together, her mending a patch in his jacket and him listening to the radio. Bert wanted to know everything about her, yet if he didn't ask, he was sure she would never say.
"Was only asking," he hummed, enjoying the tinned sound of a piano as it crackled through the speakers.
"Fear is only a matter of perception," she told him, concentrating on the pattern of her needle as it wove through the fabric.
"I suppose…"
They continued in silence. Mary couldn't begin to fathom why he would ask such a silly question; he knew better than that. There was nothing in this world that she possibly had to fear. Glancing across, she felt the need to tell him so, pausing when she saw his figure slouched in the chair.
One grey strand wove through his dark hair. An unnatural sight, considering how he usually looked. Yet, its appearance was nothing but natural- everyone must age sometime.
Realising her distraction, she continued sewing the jacket. Mary suddenly felt inclined to leave the subject be; perhaps Bert hadn't been so silly to ask. Fear wasn't always a matter of perception. It could be real. Very real. And nothing panicked her more than that one strand of hair.