ā = dancing with them .
Send a symbol for CĘ°į»ng's reaction to...: (Still accepting.)
ā: Dancing with him.
Heās too serious, everyone says, and all irony aside -- tongue-in-cheek, boasting that foul flavor of macabre -- perhaps even grave. And how interesting, the death-seer, the sleepy-eyed ghost dreamer, thinks to himself. Yes, how ridiculous. And more, how funny. Tiff watches as he chops away, banana flowers perfuming, and heād argue thereās no one, not now or ever, as alive as he is. He grows roses and thyme! He makes ointments and creams. He wretches people from the cusp of deadlier ills -- fevers, heād clarify, but whatās a little bit of drama, right? Point is, he doesnāt really get it when Tiff comes behind him. Heās unabashed, heād argue! She finds his waist, and he thinks he hears,Ā āLive a little.ā
She turns him. His apron clings. CĘ°į»ng drops his knife where it clatters on the cutting board, and still, the world crows aloud: laugh then. Joke. She twines their fingers, and far enough so that he canātĀ hear: or smile. Do you remember when you last did that?
Well... Not really. Sheās petite, black hair prettily bouncing about, and he blinks as she steps, grooves, pivots them. He allows it, clumsier perhaps, but she guides them well beneath the alluring, mouth-watering scent of dinner.
āYouāre just manhandling me,ā he drawls, two steps left when he shouldāve gone right. She could laugh, smooth like pouring wines red as cherry, and heād gawp. Still, he believes it bubbles in her eyes, and softer for it, brighter, he folds their hands. Hm. āWell, then, that means Iām light, arenāt I? In the clouds, even. Over the moon, even.ā He stops, raises his arm, and after a ballerina-twirl, leans in. Sheās bent. He looks down, dark eyes and all, and cocks his head. āLive a little.ā āIām shameless, you should know. Set the plates.ā
