uncontained glee

SSPrompt: Even If You Cannot Hear My Voice

Prompt: Sasuke copes with Sakura’s muteness.

It had been three years-

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

“So she’s going to be okay?” Naruto had asked the medic, one that both boys recognized as one of Sakura’s former interns but whose name they could not remember for the life of them.

“Yes,” the young man said, looking slightly apprehensive as he spoke to his superiors, Naruto and Sasuke, and two of the most well-respected and feared ninja of the five nations, “but there were, uh, complications…”

“Complications?” Sasuke spoke up irritatedly after having sustained silence for long enough.

The medic looked slightly unnerved now, “Hai. Although we were able to stop the bleeding in her neck, and there is minimal scarring, well…”

“Well, what?” both boys spoke with anger lining each of their voices.

“She can’t talk,” spoke another more familiar voice.

Naruto and Sasuke turned to the speaker. Shizune removed a pair of latex gloves and disposed of them in a nearby trashcan before closing the door to the room she was exiting. “The damage to her trachea due to a combination of the incision and the poison makes her state likely irreversible. There wasn’t much we could do to begin with.”

“She can’t talk?” Naruto tried to clarify, a lost hand combing through his spiky blond hair in frustration, “Ever?”

“That’s what she just said,” Sasuke snapped in a low tone, eyes wandering to the hospital door to curiously land on a certain pink-haired patient. He averted his gaze. He wouldn’t let this ruin him.

“I’m,” Shizune considered her words, a certain softness entering her gaze, “I’m sorry, guys.”

“Save it,” Sasuke said, walking away from them, from the conversation, from the stark realization of her condition.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

- three years.

“Sakura,” he called into the house as he always did, alerting her of his presence; still, being the skilled kunoichi she was, it was likely she had sensed him long before he stepped through the door.

A pink head of hair entered his peripherals as she stuck her head out the frame of the kitchen doorway. A dazzling smile decorated her already pleasant features, lighting up the room. Welcome home, her eyes said.

“What’s for dinner?” he questioned habitually whilst toeing off his sandals.

Sakura waved a spoon wielding hand directly to her right, signaling him to look for himself. Her spoon directed his eye to the menu board that she had so insistently looked for in a myriad of home-decor stores. Shrimp tempura was scrawled across the chalkboard in her familiar, delicate script.

“Hopefully this comes out better than last time,” he called to her from the table over the loud hiss of frying batter. He swore people simply had it wrong when they claimed that the sharingan was the most deadly form of doujutsu in the known shinobi world, because the glare Uchiha Sakura shot him could surely split the universe in two with its sheer ferocity. Still, he gifted her with a cool smirk in an attempt to stir her better emotions. Much to his luck, she returned the knowing smile and returned to her work.

Being the one to carry conversations would always be strange to the Uchiha. Even in his youth, the only one he truly cared to initiate conversations with had been his brother. But that seemed to be a million lifetimes ago now, or perhaps even some faraway dream. Not to mention the fact that the one he held conversations with now was none other than Sakura. Talking to one’s wife should have been easy, but it wasn’t always so for Sasuke. For so long, he had counted on her never-ending supply of frivolous thought, her knack for keeping track of Konoha’s gossip, and her genuine interest in his well-being to keep the flow of conversation in their shared household. Nowadays, he lived life by a different accord, one that often included speaking of things that he otherwise thought of as needless; like the happenings of his day, some thoughts he’d been having, so on and so forth.

“Inform me of the happenings within the Uchiha household today,” he said to her as they sat on the couch after dinner, the TV hummed on a low volume before them.

She let out an even breath that resembled a sigh as her head squirmed in his lap.

Keep reading

x-serenade  asked:

dearest amy roseee <333 i hope you're doing well, my love :) so my birthday is on wednesday! if you have time, do you think you could write me a schmoopy sterek ficlet? something with birthday cake, perhaps? :D it doesn't have to be long *glomp* tysm!!

Happy Birthday, bby i remembered your prompt from last year, and i put it together with this one, i hope that’s ok

~*~

“Greetings and salutations!”

Derek pauses at the entrance to the candy store, his niece and nephew cackling with uncontained glee as they rush off to examine the shelves bursting with sweets. He stops, only because there’s a guy dressed as Willy Wonka behind the till—of the Gene Wilder variety, and not the terrifying Johnny Depp variety, thank god—and he’s smiling brightly at Derek.

“How can I help you and your sweet tooth, today?” He shimmies, shimmies out from behind the counter, purple velvet coat swaying around him, and tips his hat at Derek. Close up, Derek can see big brown eyes, sweeping eyelashes and a pretty Cupid’s bow mouth. It’s an appealing combination, until he looks away from the entrancing face and takes in the bright red bowtie and yellow waistcoat.

“My niece and nephew,” he jerks an arm at them, “I promised they could get some candy before they go home.”

“Ha,” the guy laughs, claps his hands together, “Send them home high on sugar, your sister or brother will be calling you later with complaints.”

Keep reading

The music began at ten am precisely, just as it had for the past two weeks.

Karan ducked her head, hiding her smile as Shion perked up with the first notes from the guitar. A few beats later a melodious voice rose above the clamor of voices, weaving a song over the noise.

Predictably, Shion wandered to the massive store front window, under the guise of cleaning it. After two weeks of this, Karan swore she had the cleanest window on the street, but Shion seemed unaware, gazing out with an awestruck look on his face.

“Why don’t you go say hello, Shion?” She asked in an off handed manner, shuffling through her paperwork, as if she weren’t paying attention.

Shion flushed bright red, ducking his head. “I shouldn’t interrupt him.”

Karan sighed. This could take a while.

Two hours later, like clockwork, the music stopped. It would begin again in exactly fifteen minutes.

As he had for the past week and a half, Shion burst into action, darting around the bakery, selecting the choicest items of the day, packaging them carefully, placing them gently in a bag with a cold bottle of water. Bag held carefully between his hands, as though he carried the most fragile of gifts, he exited the shop.

Karan had watched with amusement the first time this had happened, wanting to see her son approach the object of his affection. She knew the routine now though.

Shion would walk down the block, past three storefronts, to the small wooden box set up between shops where the guitarist made his stage. He would set the bag down, labeled carefully to its intended recipient, a small note of appreciation attached. He would look around, half nervous, half hopeful, making sure the musician hadn’t seen him. And he would leave, hurrying back to their shop, flushed with his success.

Also, like clockwork, the guitarist would watch from across the street, from within the small bookshop. He would wait til Shion turned away, smile playing on his lips as he returned to his post and examined his gift.

They were hopeless, Karan thought, looking up as the bell announced Shion’s return.

Shion sank back against the door, eyes gleaming, face a brilliant red, clutching something to his chest.

“What’s that?” Karan asked, surprised at this change in routine.

“It’s a book!” Shion exclaimed, holding out his prize. “He left it for me! See, there’s a note! ‘To my mysterious baker!’”

“Oh? Well, now, that’s sweet of him,” Karan said, hope blooming. “You really should go speak to him now. He deserves a thank you, at the least.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t! I know! I’ll leave him something special tomorrow!” Shion hurried up the stairs, depositing his present in their apartment before returning to work.

Karan shook her head. She was right. They were hopeless.

The next few weeks were, in her opinion, absurd.

Shion continued with his stealth missions of providing lunch. The guitarist continued to leave gifts in return, first every few days, then every single day. Their notes became longer, almost a conversation, if you were a hopeless teenage boy who couldn’t be bothered to actually speak to someone. Karan ground her teeth, determined to let them work it out at their own pace, watching them with mounting exasperation.

Shion was in his glory, however. He moved about the shop with uncontained glee, his happiness infectious, the flush of young love bright in his eyes. He danced around, quoting from the books he’d been given, chattering on endlessly.

The guitarist was called Nezumi. He’d left a note for Shion, telling him, and since, all Karan heard was 'Nezumi said… and Nezumi likes… and Nezumi thinks… isn’t Nezumi a great singer?’

The fantastic Nezumi had taken to wandering the block as he performed, passing by their shop with increasing frequency. Karan wanted to bang her head against the wall, watching as Shion would duck behind the shelves, peeking out to catch a glimpse of his raven haired love.

“Just… go say hello. Please,” Karan begged as Shion pressed himself against the window, watching until Nezumi turned to come back their way.

Shion mumbled an excuse as he ducked into hiding once more.

Hopeless.

Finally, a day came that broke the routine.

Ten am rolled around, and Shion perked up, waiting for the music to begin, confusion marring his face when it didn’t. By ten fifteen, Shion looked worried, stocking the displays in a haze. By ten thirty, he couldn’t focus, giving up all pretense of working, standing by the door, wringing his hands.

“Maybe he’s just sick, sweetheart, I’m sure he’ll be back tomorrow,” Karan soothed, her own worry unimportant. Shion nodded, clearly not hearing her, leaving his post and heading to the kitchen glumly.

Karan fretted. She didn’t know what to do, it wasn’t like she knew where Nezumi lived, she couldn’t go track him down. She doubted the guitarist would give up so suddenly though. He had to be sick, it was the most likely scenario.

At eleven, the bell above the door chimed, announcing a customer. Shion didn’t even poke his head out of the kitchen to greet their guest, lost in his dark cloud of despair.

Karan looked up from her books, smiling easily, greeting on her lips.

Nezumi stood in the doorway, uncertain smile on his lips, bouquet of flowers clutched awkwardly in his fist.

“Oh thank goodness!” Karan exclaimed, rushing across the store to seize the teen in a hug.

He stiffened, shock on his face. “Er… hi? Is, uh, is Shion around? I’m…”

Karan laughed. “I know who you are Nezumi! Oh, I am so glad to see you. Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She scowled suddenly, smacking him lightly on the chest. “You are late, young man. We were worried!”

Nezumi flushed, looking down, scuffing his shoe against the doormat. “I’m sorry for worrying you. I… wasn’t sure if I should come.”

Karan sighed. “Hopeless, both of you. Now! Shion is in the kitchen. Wait right here!” She steered him across the shop, planting the baffled teen in front of the counter.

“Shion!” She called, entering the small kitchen. Shion looked up glumly, flour smeared across his cheek, hair more wild than usual in the humidity. “There’s a customer for you.”

Shion eyed her with confusion, wiping his hands on his apron and crossing the room.

“For me?” He asked, head still ducked as he entered the main room. “Who…”

He looked up.

Nezumi scowled, holding out his bouquet and scratching the back of his neck. Shion froze, blush starting at the base of his throat.

“Nezumi…”

Karan ducked into the kitchen, hands clutched to her breast, watching as the teens faced each other for the first time.

“I… I apologize for worrying you,” Nezumi blurted out. “Uh… these are for you.”

Shion smiled, taking the flowers gently, pressing them to his chest and inhaling deeply. “Thank you.”

“So… er…” Nezumi scowled, trailing off, eyes on his feet.

Shion stepped closer, peering up at the taller boy hopefully. “Yes?”

“Would you let me take you out?” Nezumi blurted, locking eyes with Shion. “I know I don’t have much to offer, and you could do so much better, but… I want the chance to make you happy, if you’d allow me.”

Shion frowned. “Idiot.” Nezumi looked stricken. “How could I possibly do better? You’ve already made me happier than I thought was possible. Of course you can take me out.”

Nezumi smiled, soft and mystified. “Oh… well… good.”

Shion beamed, shaking his head. “Good.”

Nezumi flushed. “So… lunch?”

Shion turned, looking for Karan. “Mom? I’m going out, will you be okay here alone?”

Karan beamed, bustling out of the kitchen, shooing them toward the door. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Now, get out of here you two. Have fun!”

Karan watched as the walked down the street, Shion shyly reaching out for Nezumi’s hand, smiling so brightly when their fingers tangled together.

Hopeless, she thought fondly.

anonymous asked:

You are awesome! If you were feeling generous could you make up a fic rec list of cooking fics? like restaurants, cooks, food bloggers ect? they are my favourite and you always have the best fic rec lists <3

  • Cupboard Love by mklutz (G, 33k) He’s carefully balancing the sandwiches and the two biggest tupperware containers he could find that both had functioning lids when the front door opens and he almost drops everything right there in front of the stupid fountain. If that’s Derek Hale, he’s definitely not a mountain man.
  • Kiss The Cook by idyll (T, 5k) Derek’s a professional chef, and Stiles is a blogger who butchers his recipes.
  • Bones Straining Under The Weight by weathervaanes (E, 16k)  One of Stiles’ favorite things about life is Derek Hale’s food blog. He never expects to meet the man in person. “Derek,” he says again, and the name feels very strange on his tongue. “You don’t mean Derek Hale.” His professor’s eyebrows reach up, eyes widening. “You read his blog?” ”Uh. Worship. Would be a better more descriptive word. That is Derek Hale?” Jimmy chuckles. “Good-looking guy, huh?” ”You mean to tell me the Food Network hasn’t snatched him up to dethrone everyone else from daytime TV.” Jimmy smiles a small private smile. “I don’t think TV is his medium.” Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Shy?” The man laughs heartily at that. “No, I wouldn’t say that. He just has particular forms of expression, like eyebrows and chili powder.”
  • Dos Lobos Papas Fritas Especial by lindenmae (E, 12k) Derek has dreams. These dreams revolve around his food truck, lovingly named Dos Lobos, even though the only vaguely latin food he serves is churros, and retiring far far away from the rest of the human race, especially his uncle Peter. He already has two trucks and he has the citizens of Beacon Hills, including the Sheriff, wrapped around his duck fat coated little finger. People search his truck out on Duck Fat Fridays and the Sheriff waives all parking violations in exchange for free fries. The only catch is the arrangement has to be kept secret from the Sheriff’s son, who has unfortunately just returned from college and apparently made it his singular goal to get under Derek’s skin any way he can.

Keep reading

Day 19: Mad Scientist

warnings for torture and Alastair (I feel like he is worthy of his very own warning)

None of the audience believed Alastair when he announced he was going to bring back an angel. Of course they all stayed silent; they weren’t dumb enough to argue against Alastair, but there was quiet disbelief in all their gazes as they looked down upon the body on the gurney.

The existence of angels were long gone, long enough so that when people spoke of them, it was like they were retelling a legendary story rather than what was once a reality. Even now, it was unsure of what had happened to God’s angels; some say they all just started dropping like flies, other conspiracies tell a story of humans turning against their angels and releasing a virus that killed them all. Dean didn’t know which story he believed in, nor was he allowed to care, though the last one seemed to hold more value seeing as when they dissected angel’s bodies, they found that all their insides were mush.

“I chose this one because of his pretty eyes,” Alastair smiled, voice a veil of permanent threat, something that Dean had fought not to shudder at, “His insides were a mess though. A swamp. But I put him back together again, like I always do.”

Keep reading

Room and Board

Alright, tatarriffic (and the rest of you.)  No smut yet, because I wasn’t able to start until late in the evening, and this is as far as I could get before the brfday wish expired.

I give you the beginning of Delphine, granddaughter of Aurora Luft and attendee of boarding school, fic.  I have reviewed it exactly zero times, so I hope you’ll take what you get.  ;)

(Update: now on ff.net and AO3.)


“People can not only be good or evil, they can be both,” Mémé Aurora used to tell me.  “The hangman loves his children, and the deacon has a secret past.”

She would know about secret pasts.  She was a spy, once, when she was a young woman.  She spent years undertaking dangerous missions in France and Belgium during World War Two.  She still lived in Quebec, then, but flew all over.  You might not know it to encounter her on the street.  She is still, in her eighties, a striking woman.  She is kind and smiles at everyone she meets.  People don’t realize that, under her outward sweetness, she is shrewdly evaluating them.  They do not know that she and my pépère spend much of their time working behind the scenes to investigate and press for thoroughness in the Bergier commission, here in Switzerland.  She tells me that, as down-to-earth and trusting as the residents of the villages in the Alps near my school may seem to be, there was widespread racial discrimination, rejection of Jewish refugees, and economic trading and compliance with the Nazis then, and anyone may have secrets.

Here is how my secret began.

It had been a regular day at school.  I spent much of it in the lab, working on my biology studies.  The boarding school I attended was well-known for its specialized training in the sciences, and having an international baccalaureate from a school where English, German and French were all spoken would help prepare me for not just my future studies, but, I hoped, my future career in science.  With my mémé and pépère living outside of Geneva, the situation, I thought, would be ideal.  I could see them on some weekends and holidays, which was always a balm for my soul.  I had been an awkward child, taller than the rest, gangly, with glasses and braces, and quietly studious.  I was disregarded by most of my peers, or, worse, treated with derision.

“You will be like me,” Mémé Aurora would tell me.  “One day you will wake up and, without having changed inside, everyone will find you beautiful.  It can be useful, but don’t let it go to your head.”  It was with her and Pépère I always felt most understood, most loved, despite mon père being a teaching doctor in the the sciences, as I was interested in doing.  He was often caught up in his studies, absent-minded, and ma mère was often away on business, so although I had all the intellectual encouragement I might want, the house often seemed cold compared to visits with my grandparents, who paid careful attention to me and loved me fiercely.

My transition from ugly duckling had begun the previous year, and I still felt uncomfortable with it.  Suddenly I was invited more often to social gatherings, or pursued for friendship or more by strangers.  Inside, however, I was still me, and I followed Mémé Aurora’s advice.  I made a few more friends and had a bit more fun on holidays, but I never fully trusted others’ motivations, and at school I still kept largely to my studies and myself.  After all, I wasn’t going to get an early doctorate if I didn’t work at it.

As usual, my lab partner and best friend, Aida, was with me.  Her parents were also working in Geneva, on legal and humanitarian issues following the Bosnian War.  She also had undergone a blossoming, of sorts, growing from a nervous former refugee to a much more social animal, and, as usual, was trying to convince me to sneak off campus.

“Spring holidays aren’t far off. I’d much rather be dragged to some of your parties then than get in trouble for leaving now,” I told her.

“But Klaus has a car now,” she pointed out, and Heather is friends with some of the Americans training at the resort.  You know they always have the best parties.”

“Actually, I don’t know that,” I told her, making a note on my sample observations.  “I only know what you tell me, which you know mostly by hearsay, yourself.”  She gave me a narrowed-eyed look.

“Don’t be so boring, darling,” she said, in that way of hers, and I knew she was going to wear me down.  The truth was, I was mostly nervous about the idea, not wanting to jeopardize my good standing at the school and still feeling awkward and suspicious at most gatherings of my “peers.”  But there was a little part of me, deep inside, that was excited and curious, that wanted to have some fun, for a change.  And Aida was all about fun.

That was how I found myself, a few days later, crammed into a car with several other students, winding up a mountain pass high in the mountains.  Almost everyone had already begun drinking and smoking weed, and were singing along at top volume to the music pumping from the speakers.

I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want
So tell me what you want, what you really, really want
I wanna, (ha) I wanna, (ha) I wanna, (ha) I wanna, (ha)
I wanna really, really, really wanna zigazig ah

My eyes rolled into the back of my head.  Three years and still no-one had gotten over this song.  Aida swivelled from her place on the lap of the girl beside me and grabbed my shirt, shout/singing the verse about friendship at me dramatically.  As much as I tried to keep a straight face, I eventually burst out laughing, which earned me a wide smile and an encouraging shake of my torso via my shirt until she let go of me.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are here,” Klaus announced with pomp and excitement, as we pulled up into the resort.  A chorus of cheers went up from around me.

“Thank God, I have to pee like a racehorse,” my best friend said, ever the charmer.

Klaus had gotten us a small cabin that should sleep no more than four, but we all piled in, everyone whooping and freshening up to go to the party.  Aida handed me a beer.

“Time to get started, Cormier,” she teased, “I know you need at least two drinks before that armour starts to crack.”  She wasn’t wrong.  I gave her a smirk and took a pull from the bottle.

Things quickly became a blur.

The party was in the dance club at the resort, and when we arrived, it had already started.  Lights flashed and club music blasted, shaking my very heart with the force of the bass.

“Oh, darling,” my friend said with uncontained glee, hooking an arm around my neck, “look at all this.  All this… debauchery,” she grinned, then watched as a pack of particularly attractive people walked by in well-fitting jeans and skimpy tops.  “So many fine, athletic specimens.   And you like specimens.   C’mon, let’s dance.”

I had to chuckle.  “You know I need to work up to dancing,” I reminded her.  “I’ll be at the bar, having a drink and getting… acclimated.  You go dance, I’ll join you soon.”

With a quick eyeroll, smirk and kiss on my cheek, she ran off into the crowd, followed by most of our friends.

“What do you want to drink,” Klaus asked, and I started a little, not realizing he had stayed behind with me.

“Euhh… wine?”  I was a little nonplussed.  My friends had been teasing me that he had a crush on me.  It was not reciprocated.

“Oh, come on,” he laughed, “it’s Friday night, and we’re out of school at this club, how about something stronger?”

“Okay,” I shrugged.  “You pick.  But nothing gross like shots of Jägermeister.”  He ruffled his brow at this, but walked to the bar.  I trailed behind, grabbing a stool just as someone else left it, and watching the people on the dance floor.

The crowd was thicker than I was used to, and I decided that stronger drink would probably be a help to my nerves.  The mood was boisterous, and it was true that there seemed to be a lot of fit people there.  Not that I was surprised, knowing that members of several ski teams were training there, including the aforementioned Americans. I tried to look at it from my best friend’s point of view, picking out the ones I found attractive, wondering if I would have the nerve to dance near the boys I liked, beginning to understand the effect I had on many men, but not being certain or used to it.  My eye was caught by a swirl of light.

Near the center of the dancefloor, a small girl whirled.  I wouldn’t have seen her if the crowd hadn’t parted a bit, despite the club not being packed yet, due to her stature.  But there she was, and the light was coming from her.  She held two glowsticks, and had another glowing tube interwoven in her hair, which was in a long, high ponytail of dreads.  She wore hugely baggy pants, but a small, tight, cropped tank top that showed off some impressive abs.  I wondered if she was one of the athletes.  She seemed to be in her own world, caught up in the music, turning and dipping, her arms constantly moving fluidly, weaving patterns of light.  I hadn’t ever seen anyone quite like her.  Despite my travels, I was still sheltered, in many ways.

“Delphine, here you go,” Klaus prompted from beside me, and as I turned he handed me a drink.  I took a sip.  It was deceptively sweet, citrusy, but I could tell hard liquor lurked beneath.  At least it wasn’t Jägermeister.

He proceeded to chat me up as I divided my attention between his flirtations, my drink and the dancefloor.  He generally seemed like a nice guy, but I could tell the drinking was loosening him up, as well.  He leaned closer and began touching my arm as he talked.  I didn’t want to be rude, but my monosyllabic responses didn’t seem to dissuade him, and when I finished my drink, I told him, trying for an airy tone, that I was ready to join our friends on the dancefloor.

“Hey,” he said, grabbing my wrist that was on the bar, and I realized from his bleary-eyed gaze than he was probably farther gone than I’d realized.  “How about one more drink first?  C’mon.”  He signalled to the bartender.  I was getting uncomfortable.  Something told me that his urge to imbibe wasn’t just to have a good time or get over any shyness he had.  Perhaps he was hoping to get me drunk so I would be more… sociable.

“Listen, no thank you, Klaus, I…”

“Two Long Island Iced Teas,” he was telling the bartender, and I felt someone brush against me on my other side.

“I have something better,” came an oddly pleasing feminine voice just below and beside me.  “How ‘bout some water?”

It was the girl with the glowsticks.  She peered at me through her large glasses and gave me a joyful, riveting smile.  The fine sheen of sweat on her skin from dancing only seemed to make her glow, as well.

“Huh?”  Klaus turned beside me, then saw her and laughed.  “Water?  Are you kidding?”

“Nope,” she answered, with a small pop of her lips, and held up a large, colourful water bottle.  “Best to stay hydrated.  I can get you a glass, or a straw to share mine, if you like.”  Her accent was lazy, drawn out, clearly American.  Her eyebrows raised in the most fetching way.  

“Em, yes,” I told her, not even sure when I had decided to speak, “I think I… that would be very good.  I am thirsty.”

She gave me one of those smiles a lot like the ones my best friend sometimes gave me.  It was kind, but also sly, and perhaps a bit teasing.

“Great,” she patted the bar and the bartender plopped down a tall glass of water, embellished by a wedge of lemon.  She tossed a few bills on the counter and handed me the glass, cocking her head.

“C’mon, I wanna show you something,” she said, and barely touched my elbow.  Before I knew it, I was on my feet and following her to the other side of the dance club.

“Thank you.  What did you want to show me,” I asked her, glancing around, when we reached a small seating area by the opposite wall.

“Nothing,” she said.  “I just wanted to get you away from him.  It looked like he didn’t want to take no for an answer.  Was he harassing you?”

“Hmm,” I took a long drink of my water, suddenly feeling parched.  “I wouldn’t say… harassing might be too harsh a word,” I reasoned, “but I did want to get away.”

“I figured,” she nodded.  “Anyway, who knows with guys like that once they have a few more drinks, am I right?  Or girls, for that matter.”  She tipped me a wink.

My brain seemed to have slowed down, and I couldn’t really get what she was saying, or how she wanted me to respond.  I crinkled my brow.

“Nevermind.  Anyway, hi.  I’m Cosima,” she grinned, giving me a small wave.

“Oh.  I’m Delphine,” I answered, and I think I surprised her when I grasped her hand to shake it.  “Enchantée.”

*****

To be continued…?!?