SPRING HAD YAWNED INTO THE GOLDEN TWILIGHTS OF SUMMER. binx had felt the want to cocoon or morph. to change somehow. perhaps stagnation was the price you paid for clinging to the things long forgotten by others. they cannot remember how long they had known genevive and in some ways a metric of time would not have mattered to her. she hoped she’d known gen for always, and that it continues on the way. she flitted and swerved between the bodies at the poppyhouse. a blur of faces as she makes her way toward the person she intended to visit all along.
“it’s tuesday.” she reminds before sliding over a neatly back picnic basket to the vampire. the wicker is a stained a deep cherry. there are gifts an libations that binx had collected. an old wine, a candle stick holder, and the soft pashmina that was just gen’s color. “open it.” she prodded. “i was going through my collection and these things just seemed to call your name.”
@cursedbirth
