Ah, sometimes Tasha wanted to own the world. To let the planet rest in the palm of their hand and to watch what happened beneath their gaze. Yet such things were little more than topics to write of, and there was no instance where someone like them could bother to take over, and so they had to be satisfied with the thoughts of wreaking havoc with their words instead. Yet when Tasha was around Tommy, they felt like they were able to do something, no matter how small.Â
âYes, really,â came the reassurance, though not quick in nature, instead slow to churn. Even if it was slow in its announcement, that didnât lessen the hopeful impact of saying it at all.
It was their foot which reached out now, touching just the heel of Babeâs hind leg, the one that couldnât fit beneath the rest of her body. Betty decided to make herself known once again, by pushing her head against the hand her fur still occupied, tongue lolling happily. This was the comeuppance of the existence of the Fleming child: always having to check, double-check, triple-check, always having to be more hyperaware, more sensitive, more alert, unable to claim the luxury of glancing around a couple of times and leaving it at that. Within seconds, something in the environment could change - the company, the temperature, the time. And at times, they gathered, it was hard enough for seeing-people to react, to do, to relate.
Sometimes - they became so very tired. Tired of reaching into a world that more often than not didnât stop to give anything back to them. But Tommy gave back to them. When he narrated something as simple as a smoke ring or then performed a physical action of reassuring, he gave. Sometimes, it encouraged them - to keep on.
âWhat about royalties and full credit?â was their just as quick response. Bargaining, bartering, witty ends, stark beginnings. âYes, but now, you have given me ideas, and done a whole lot of other things, and so I think now it is unfortunately impossible.â They sighed, half-dramatically. âI might be mean to you, but it will only be able to last for a couple of days. Besides, you know I canât really - Iâm not mean. I canât be mean. Or loud, like Jordan.â
When he breathed in, breathed out, pressed his shoulder, ground his bones against theirs, they reacted by clenching - youâve certainly got the hands for it - their fingers. Prints and nails scraped against the skin beneath his shirt, but the sensations said: cotton. Probably the colour black or white ( whatever those might look like. ) Cotton: tight when first touched, relaxing with the warmth of a hand or the care of wear. âYou are a cotton-blend. I donât know what this is.â
After a moment, they released him, and they ran their finger and thumb along the line of their collar. âI wrote that. Made it up on the spot. Obviously I am not scaring you; otherwise, you might have left. Am I?â Their fingers pressed to their cheeks - which, indeed, felt warmer than usual. Maybe there was a splotchy redness beneath their eyes. âGreat. I wasnât planning on making a day of it, but time just sort of - went away.â And they hadnât asked their phone for it.
âItâs cotton, unless thatâs not what you were askinâ. White today, quite bright - Mum got new detergent,â he grinned, requiring a glance down at himself in order to check what heâd tossed on that morning. (Or perhaps itâd been the night before - itâd all melded together in a haze of his most recent stash-upgrade.) âWith black jeans,â he nudged his knee against theirs, and then his foot, âand a pair of boots I think youâd likeâ. Tommy never quite knew when to stop giving such mundane things to Tasha - they mustâve grown annoyed by it at some point (who wouldnât), but heâd keep on the same route until they told him to shut up. âWhy you goinâ round thinkinâ Iâm a cotton blend?â
âYouâre a whole lot of things, Flem,â (or was it phlegm?), âbut - no - not quite mean. Usually. Not on purpose, anyway.â They were, however, quite cruel, though they were naĂŻve to it: with their triple-checking, little hands, with the turn of their collar. âWhat am I, then, if Jordanâs loud and youâre mean and smart? I suppose Luke is the blonde one. Iâd like to know what my thing is - am I the supplier?â He huffed, ego bruised by his own words, and slouched further into the bench, nudging his forehead against Tashaâs shoulder quickly, toe of his boot tapping against one of Bettyâs greying legs. âI was always wanting to be the trouble-maker, or the artist, or something.â A wicked, terrible, Tommy Hyatt grin, and then: âor the Frog King of Vancouver - get that on my headstone, would you?â
Of course you are. âNo - Iâm not scared of anything. Unless Mumâs had a bad day and gets that Jamaican-Mum look in her eye.â He watched as Tashaâs fingers stuttered along their cheeks, and grinned, wide enough that the gap at the corner of his mouth where he was missing a tooth was visible, dimples embedded deep in his cheeks. Curious and scatterbrained, Tommy pressed his fingers to his own face, skin brown where Tashaâs was pink, to see if he could feel his own dimples. His fingers were too clumsy, though, not adept enough for not relying on touch, and so all he felt was chubby skin. âAs time is prone to. Itâs four thirty-four, approximately. Sunâs getting low, though, so I think thatâll be about as bad as it gets. Have you been sitting here all day?â













