@daydriinking
The woods are quiet-- not much more than the chirp of a few birds outside, like calls out to the reaches of them both, like urgent little curiosities. Deer step lightly in the underbrush, and the pool’s halogen lights make Alana’s eyes seem chlorinated blue, an unreal color. There’s a bottle of Macallan between them-- the good stuff. Whenever Jessica reaches for it, Alana’s tentatively careful not to, afraid to brush fingers. Hyper-conscious, her own clad tight in leather gloves. Her excuse is: it’s cold.
To be fair, it is cold. The chill of autumn’s setting in. Crickets begin a symphony. Alana’s dogs mill about on the back deck. She’s underweight, to begin with, excuses on top of excuses. Anything to avoid contact. Her NYU sweater falls around her frame, baggy, half a mess. Her hair’s undone from the day’s endeavor.
She reaches down, takes a swallow, half wheezes.
Whiskey and she don’t agree.
“What’s it like?”
Curious, neutral.
“Doing what you can do.”
Another pause.
“I just mean-- as a pedestrian, with no miraculous talent to speak of. What’s it like to be able to... perform the miraculous?”
