“Bits!” You immediately exclaim, only to let your face fall as the hint of recognition in her eyes turns to one of bleary confusion.
She’s forgotten you all over again, it didn’t work; you failed.
==> Darling, calm down, you’re off-coloured.
Time to try again, “It’s me Hilly, it’s your Porter, back from the dead and charming as ever,” you give her a classic grin, hoping it’ll prompt one of hers despite the semi-faked sincerity.
Feeling stilted from your lack of warmth, you shuffle your weight from left to right leg, “you uh-, hm, can I come in?” You scratch at a mole on the side of your neck, eyes focusing on the hem of her left sleeve, the way it hung down slightly more than it’s opposite from the weight of the awkwardly sized fabric, “I promise I don’t bite, and if I do well, you gotta have a rolled up magazine somewhere in there.”
Oh, she recognized him. She just didn’t recognize that he was real. Or care, for that matter. With a soft sigh, Hilly walked past the threshold of her front door and wrapped her arms around Porter. He was cold.
==> HD: Oh shit, he’s solid.
After a moment of embrace, she peeled herself away from him, looking up. Her eyes were wide and, without warning, watery. “Oh, Godhead,” she sobbed, “it’s you it’s, it, i-it’s really you–” The tears welling up in her eyes flooded over, dripping down her cheeks until they hit her chin, hit the floor–she leapt (as much as she could) to hug him around his neck, pull him down, kiss his cheeks, he’s here, he’s here, it’s him it’s him it’s him it’s him–
“C’mon in, I, I jus’–” Hilly hiccuped, cutting herself off. Head spinning, she took him, her soulmate, by his hand and led him inside. “You’re not real,” she laughed to herself, “no way ya could be. But Godhead, I missed ya s’much. D’you want some tea, P?”
