Sera throws her arms around him and god, she does that with such enthusiasm that he cannot help but return it, or maybe he couldn't help but return it before it even became something like a proportional response. The Denver airport and the hour is ridiculous to her and perfectly ordinary to him. She's running on fumes, he's running on the smoked duck taco he had for lunch and she's all elbows and edges and he is all warm breath and beery comfort and it is later than she really is prepared to understand.
She is less drunk than you'd imagine after such endless hours, but drifting in a way that feels both present and prescient and there are slivers of time when she cannot remember her name and other slivers of just as intimately whole time when she remembers everything and all she's carrying is a hard-sided suitcase and a stuffed rabbit and a brass knuckle clutch, Alexander McQueen, skulls with crystal eyes and if she started off the whole process of international flights with a coat or jacket her jacket has been lost along the way. She's carrying the threadbare stuffed bunny like a Child Traveling Alone and there may be some irony in that, conscious or unconscious, but it all comes with her.
You ready to go home and crash he asks her, or are you up for a party.
She is absolutely ready to go home and crash and sleep through a full cycle of the sun and then some, but also: of course she's up for a party. She's always up for a party.
There are pieces of private conversation between the airport and the house on Corona Street (she does have a hard-sided suitcase and a stuffed bunny to drop off and an intercontinental flight to scrub off of her skin) and the loft closer to midtown, but we leave those to the private confines of the warm Jeep. Sometime past ten p.m., not quite midnight, on the shortest day and longest night of the year, Dan and Sera make an appearance at Kiara's solstice party. The former brings a bottle of Cotes du Rhone and a tray of ginger snaps, the latter of bottle of Hendrick's and her ridiculously hot ass.
(Now with hopefully fewer typos!)
She is less drunk than you'd imagine after such endless hours, but drifting in a way that feels both present and prescient and there are slivers of time when she cannot remember her name and other slivers of just as intimately whole time when she remembers everything and all she's carrying is a hard-sided suitcase and a stuffed rabbit and a brass knuckle clutch, Alexander McQueen, skulls with crystal eyes and if she started off the whole process of international flights with a coat or jacket her jacket has been lost along the way. She's carrying the threadbare stuffed bunny like a Child Traveling Alone and there may be some irony in that, conscious or unconscious, but it all comes with her.
You ready to go home and crash he asks her, or are you up for a party.
She is absolutely ready to go home and crash and sleep through a full cycle of the sun and then some, but also: of course she's up for a party. She's always up for a party.
There are pieces of private conversation between the airport and the house on Corona Street (she does have a hard-sided suitcase and a stuffed bunny to drop off and an intercontinental flight to scrub off of her skin) and the loft closer to midtown, but we leave those to the private confines of the warm Jeep. Sometime past ten p.m., not quite midnight, on the shortest day and longest night of the year, Dan and Sera make an appearance at Kiara's solstice party. The former brings a bottle of Cotes du Rhone and a tray of ginger snaps, the latter of bottle of Hendrick's and her ridiculously hot ass.
(Now with hopefully fewer typos!)
But my heart is wild and my bones are steel
And I could kill you with my bare hands if I was free.
- Phosphorescent, Song for Zula
And I could kill you with my bare hands if I was free.
- Phosphorescent, Song for Zula