[ she had been watching him the whole time, so there was no way she could have missed the pause, the tension in his brows. she makes a soft, acknowledging sound in the back of her throat, knowing but not accusatory. ]
In something more precious.
[ she turns her attention back out towards the woods, tracing the dark outline of dead branches poking through the layers of snow. before the silence can grow too settled, too comfortable, she takes another few puffs and speaks up again. ]
But the smallest will find that it needs nothing than to curl with another, [ she recites in a quiet, almost reverent tone, each syllable as carefully cradled on her tongue as they were crafted. she lifts her free hand out in front of her, palm forward, pinky cocked, pushing past the fading cloud of smoke. ] A Dear Friend.
[ you aren't meant to inhale a cigar when you smoke it, but you always carry the smell of it anyway. when marta drops her hand back to her knee and stares out into the artificial horizon, she knows the smoke and ash clinging to her hair and clothes is as real as the ones that lingered around her uncles during those evenings hanging out on the porch, enjoying the day's heat settle into something more comfortable, more palatable. feeling homesick for cuba isn't uncommon, but it hits a little different knowing it's so much more than a plane ride away now.
not that it was ever that easy to go back to begin with... ]
You said before here, you were solving a murder. [ there's something distant in her tone, as far away as the gaze in her eyes. she won't press him too much about the poem, not now, when his edges still feel so raw and frayed like the ends of the thread he so meticulously winds around their sticks. ] Are you a detective?
no subject
In something more precious.
[ she turns her attention back out towards the woods, tracing the dark outline of dead branches poking through the layers of snow. before the silence can grow too settled, too comfortable, she takes another few puffs and speaks up again. ]
But the smallest will find that it needs nothing than to curl with another, [ she recites in a quiet, almost reverent tone, each syllable as carefully cradled on her tongue as they were crafted. she lifts her free hand out in front of her, palm forward, pinky cocked, pushing past the fading cloud of smoke. ] A Dear Friend.
[ you aren't meant to inhale a cigar when you smoke it, but you always carry the smell of it anyway. when marta drops her hand back to her knee and stares out into the artificial horizon, she knows the smoke and ash clinging to her hair and clothes is as real as the ones that lingered around her uncles during those evenings hanging out on the porch, enjoying the day's heat settle into something more comfortable, more palatable. feeling homesick for cuba isn't uncommon, but it hits a little different knowing it's so much more than a plane ride away now.
not that it was ever that easy to go back to begin with... ]
You said before here, you were solving a murder. [ there's something distant in her tone, as far away as the gaze in her eyes. she won't press him too much about the poem, not now, when his edges still feel so raw and frayed like the ends of the thread he so meticulously winds around their sticks. ] Are you a detective?