You get LT, for great enthusiastic love. ♥ ~~~~~~~~~~~
She wrote her letter carefully, pink pen on white paper, because some habits were too good to ever grow out of. She didn't sign it, because he would know who it was from, even after four years of very irregular correspondence. Sometimes she had survived immobile classes like calculus, literature and even history by tapping one foot against the floor and thinking about playing basketball, or football, or dancing, working and working to time her movements to his.
Now she cranked back the handle and let her letter fly. A little stiff again, she noticed, and hoped the new mayor was taking care of the town correctly.
Waiting, she shifted her weight from foot to foot, brushing her hair back behind her ears and trying to think of what to say, how to sound sophisticated but still like herself. In the end, it didn't make any difference, because when he came flipping down the ladder and landed in front of her, hands resting confidently on his hips, all she could do was fling herself at him and wrap both arms around his waist, so glad to see him again that she was caught between sobbing and singing, a child all over again. "Sportacus!" He was still so familiar, his arms wrapping naturally around her...and it took her a moment to realize that familiar was wrong.
He should be older than this. And not so smooth, here, with musculature less defined, and not so tall, now that she was so tall herself. She pulled back enough to look at him fully, astonished. The eyes were wrong, not quite the same shade, the hair and the mustache just a hue lighter.
"You must be Stephanie," he said, with that same hint of an unusual accent, but a deeper voice and a more enthusiastic gleam to his eyes. He pointed to the double digits of the number on his chest. "I am Number Eleven."
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(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-24 06:22 pm (UTC)~~~~~~~~~~~
She wrote her letter carefully, pink pen on white paper, because some habits were too good to ever grow out of. She didn't sign it, because he would know who it was from, even after four years of very irregular correspondence. Sometimes she had survived immobile classes like calculus, literature and even history by tapping one foot against the floor and thinking about playing basketball, or football, or dancing, working and working to time her movements to his.
Now she cranked back the handle and let her letter fly. A little stiff again, she noticed, and hoped the new mayor was taking care of the town correctly.
Waiting, she shifted her weight from foot to foot, brushing her hair back behind her ears and trying to think of what to say, how to sound sophisticated but still like herself. In the end, it didn't make any difference, because when he came flipping down the ladder and landed in front of her, hands resting confidently on his hips, all she could do was fling herself at him and wrap both arms around his waist, so glad to see him again that she was caught between sobbing and singing, a child all over again. "Sportacus!" He was still so familiar, his arms wrapping naturally around her...and it took her a moment to realize that familiar was wrong.
He should be older than this. And not so smooth, here, with musculature less defined, and not so tall, now that she was so tall herself. She pulled back enough to look at him fully, astonished. The eyes were wrong, not quite the same shade, the hair and the mustache just a hue lighter.
"You must be Stephanie," he said, with that same hint of an unusual accent, but a deeper voice and a more enthusiastic gleam to his eyes. He pointed to the double digits of the number on his chest. "I am Number Eleven."