((Misty Browder continued from Everybody Needs Somebody To Hate))
As she took one step after another towards home, Max at her side, Misty reflected that it really had been a magical evening.
Not a perfect one, of course. Nothing was perfect. There had been moments where the two of them had gotten glares from others, but that didn't mean a thing to Misty. Let them look and let them seethe, let them think what they would; tonight she was untouchable by even those who would normally drive her to distraction by their simple presence. This was the sort of night where she could give Ariana Moretti a smile—she wouldn't mean it, of course, but it wouldn't be the prelude to anything further either. She and Max had danced, holding each other close without devolving into the crass behavior of so many of the others, though largely because Misty was nervous about his reactions; she would've been alright with getting just a little bit crass.
No, what was settling heavy over Misty's mind had nothing to do with anybody else. The night had been wonderful. She'd spent every minute of it wishing it could last forever, and knowing just the same that it couldn't.
They'd dined afterwards at an Italian restaurant called Alleia, and Misty had selected the prosciutto di parma pizza, allowing Max to order for her in a show of chivalry that smoothly covered up the fact that she did not know how to pronounce "prosciutto." Max, of course, either did or was confident enough not to be bothered.
She'd picked something on the medium-low end of the price range, just because that was what she'd been taught was polite when you were being treated and for once Misty was actually trying to be genuinely polite without ulterior motives, or at least negative ones. Did wanting her date to think her cultured and bright and engaging count as a manipulation? It probably depended on whether or not she actually possessed any of those qualities.
They were walking home, now. The night was warm, the breeze gentle, and air smelled clean. They'd left the limo behind once they'd been ferried to the restaurant, because it wasn't too far a trek from there to Misty's house—maybe a mile and a half, two miles. She had, of course, not quite accounted for the discomfort of doing the walk in heels, and was now weighing the risk/reward of carrying them and going barefoot. Would she step in something gross? Would Max think she was crass and phony, or pragmatic and confident? At least her dress was light enough that she wasn't getting sweaty. The corsage on her wrist, briefly removed for dinner, was still fresh.
Her parents would probably be out for some time more. Her mother had texted her an hour into the dance, letting her know they'd decided to have a night out on the town themselves. Were they gripped by nostalgia, or were they trying to make themselves scarce to afford Misty privacy? She really couldn't say, and she really didn't care. It meant that the night could last just a little while longer.
There was still some time 'til midnight.
There's Always Some Fear In Love
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MurderWeasel
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MethodicalSlacker
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The stares from others at the dance had gotten to Misty somewhat less than they had to him, Max surmised.
Good.
[Max Rudolph continued from Everybody Needs Somebody to Hate.]
It felt near constant, while they were there, though the deeper into the night they sank the more convinced Max was that most of it had been in his head. There were plenty more entertaining spectacles to gawp at, as far as he was concerned. The veritable minefield that was the Prom Royalty voting, for instance, proved a momentary distraction from the constant sense of being stared at. Misty was a nice dancer, too, letting Max lead; he was not the most well-versed in the ways of the ballroom, but he had enough social grace to know that the bare minimum for proficiency was good enough, a bare minimum that he was fairly certain he surpassed by several degrees of skill. Their dancing may have been what drew some side-eyes, he posited, but he was not one to talk himself up in such a manner. But being seen was not altogether bad. It made Max feel, in some respects, important. And aside from the eyes in his direction, he had a truly good time. Misty was a blast to be around, and Max had forgotten, in some ways, just how good it was to be near someone so...so Misty.
Things had stayed rather...platonic, contact wise. It went without saying that as they were swaying they held each other closely, but not much else followed. In some respects, that was deliberate on Max's parts. However, that did not keep it from being somewhat disappointing. At dinner, he felt as though he was somewhat stifled. Keeping himself well composed and proper prevented him from acting on many a fleeting impulse. At many points, he had wanted to take her hand, but he didn't want to impose. Conversationally he was engaged, but strayed often from matters of the heart simply because he didn't want to overstep his bounds. Four, five years ago, and he would not have felt troubled by these things. The venison was delicious, and the accompanying pasta was sublime. Misty ordered something less expensive out of deference, or personal preference; he was unable to tell, so he did not urge her to try something more decadent if she did not wish to.
Walking through the slightly breezy night, Max felt slightly unfulfilled. Everything, sans glares, was perfect, by the books, the model promenade evening. Something was missing, however. He looked at Misty's awkward gait in her high heels, and thought of saying something, but did not want to insult her in case she was putting forth an effort for his sake. Her prettiness has kept throughout the evening, he observed, and recoiled from with disgust. 'Kept' felt like he was describing food, which Misty was not to be likened to. It was unbecoming to have such a thought.
He did not know what they would do upon arrival at her house. Either her parents were there, or they were not. If they were, then it was likely time for farewells and good nights. If they were not, then he hoped Misty would invite him inside and he could feel more relaxed.
Speaking of relaxation; they were walking in silence. Max knew better than to let things stay that way for too long, so he rattled off a line that he must have already spoken at some point in the evening.
"I hope you've been having fun, tonight."
And then an addendum, enunciated more softly, something he had surely not yet uttered.
"I've been really enjoying myself."
Good.
[Max Rudolph continued from Everybody Needs Somebody to Hate.]
It felt near constant, while they were there, though the deeper into the night they sank the more convinced Max was that most of it had been in his head. There were plenty more entertaining spectacles to gawp at, as far as he was concerned. The veritable minefield that was the Prom Royalty voting, for instance, proved a momentary distraction from the constant sense of being stared at. Misty was a nice dancer, too, letting Max lead; he was not the most well-versed in the ways of the ballroom, but he had enough social grace to know that the bare minimum for proficiency was good enough, a bare minimum that he was fairly certain he surpassed by several degrees of skill. Their dancing may have been what drew some side-eyes, he posited, but he was not one to talk himself up in such a manner. But being seen was not altogether bad. It made Max feel, in some respects, important. And aside from the eyes in his direction, he had a truly good time. Misty was a blast to be around, and Max had forgotten, in some ways, just how good it was to be near someone so...so Misty.
Things had stayed rather...platonic, contact wise. It went without saying that as they were swaying they held each other closely, but not much else followed. In some respects, that was deliberate on Max's parts. However, that did not keep it from being somewhat disappointing. At dinner, he felt as though he was somewhat stifled. Keeping himself well composed and proper prevented him from acting on many a fleeting impulse. At many points, he had wanted to take her hand, but he didn't want to impose. Conversationally he was engaged, but strayed often from matters of the heart simply because he didn't want to overstep his bounds. Four, five years ago, and he would not have felt troubled by these things. The venison was delicious, and the accompanying pasta was sublime. Misty ordered something less expensive out of deference, or personal preference; he was unable to tell, so he did not urge her to try something more decadent if she did not wish to.
Walking through the slightly breezy night, Max felt slightly unfulfilled. Everything, sans glares, was perfect, by the books, the model promenade evening. Something was missing, however. He looked at Misty's awkward gait in her high heels, and thought of saying something, but did not want to insult her in case she was putting forth an effort for his sake. Her prettiness has kept throughout the evening, he observed, and recoiled from with disgust. 'Kept' felt like he was describing food, which Misty was not to be likened to. It was unbecoming to have such a thought.
He did not know what they would do upon arrival at her house. Either her parents were there, or they were not. If they were, then it was likely time for farewells and good nights. If they were not, then he hoped Misty would invite him inside and he could feel more relaxed.
Speaking of relaxation; they were walking in silence. Max knew better than to let things stay that way for too long, so he rattled off a line that he must have already spoken at some point in the evening.
"I hope you've been having fun, tonight."
And then an addendum, enunciated more softly, something he had surely not yet uttered.
"I've been really enjoying myself."
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MurderWeasel
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Misty was struck by Max's tone, almost more than his words.
Yes, it could have been simple politeness. It would be kind of him to say something like he just had even if he didn't mean a word of it, or at least society would deem it so. But Misty had come to know and understand Max a little better, she thought, and she didn't think he would lie like that, or at least not to her, or at least not so quietly.
"I have been too," she said. She also spoke quietly, much more so than she was accustomed to doing.
They weren't really alone. It was probably impossible to truly be alone anywhere in a city the size of Chattanooga, but even by its standards of solitude they weren't really isolated except in the most immediate sense. There were houses lining the streets they walked, houses not so nice as where Max lived, surely, but a little nicer than they would be a few blocks on, when they approached Misty's dwelling. There were windows aglow with light, families huddled together on couches watching television and couples having late dinners of Chinese takeout. Cars rolled by, not many because this wasn't too busy a street or a time of night, but stand on any street around here at any hour and Misty thought you wouldn't have to wait more than ten minutes before someone rolled by. Far off, somewhere out of sight, a dog barked once, twice, and then another dog echoed it, voice muffled by an even greater distance.
But, for all that, they were alone enough. There was a wide world out there, and innumerable more narrow ones, all ready to intrude and whisk them headlong towards their destinies, but right now they had this moment, this street. When Misty slipped out of her dress tonight and hung it up in the closet, she might well never take it back out to wear again. It could sit there, getting that smell clothes somehow picked up when ignored long enough, until she dug it out to pass along to some thrift store in the name of clearing space. Some other girl she would never meet might wear it, might be surprised after a night on the town when she slipped into a darkened cab and found constellations faintly glowing along her body. But for now it still flowed around Misty, still served its purpose in her life.
"Thank you," she added, quieter still. Two simple words, ones she'd spoken too often to count, but had she ever uttered them quite this sincerely? Had she ever meant them in quite this way?
Her face felt warm, and her feet felt sore, the straps and edges of her shoes chafing against her arches and her ankles. She pondered for a second, weighed her options, and decided to trust.
"Just a second," she said, pausing and kneeling. "If it's, uh, I was going to... take these off for just a few."
Yes, it could have been simple politeness. It would be kind of him to say something like he just had even if he didn't mean a word of it, or at least society would deem it so. But Misty had come to know and understand Max a little better, she thought, and she didn't think he would lie like that, or at least not to her, or at least not so quietly.
"I have been too," she said. She also spoke quietly, much more so than she was accustomed to doing.
They weren't really alone. It was probably impossible to truly be alone anywhere in a city the size of Chattanooga, but even by its standards of solitude they weren't really isolated except in the most immediate sense. There were houses lining the streets they walked, houses not so nice as where Max lived, surely, but a little nicer than they would be a few blocks on, when they approached Misty's dwelling. There were windows aglow with light, families huddled together on couches watching television and couples having late dinners of Chinese takeout. Cars rolled by, not many because this wasn't too busy a street or a time of night, but stand on any street around here at any hour and Misty thought you wouldn't have to wait more than ten minutes before someone rolled by. Far off, somewhere out of sight, a dog barked once, twice, and then another dog echoed it, voice muffled by an even greater distance.
But, for all that, they were alone enough. There was a wide world out there, and innumerable more narrow ones, all ready to intrude and whisk them headlong towards their destinies, but right now they had this moment, this street. When Misty slipped out of her dress tonight and hung it up in the closet, she might well never take it back out to wear again. It could sit there, getting that smell clothes somehow picked up when ignored long enough, until she dug it out to pass along to some thrift store in the name of clearing space. Some other girl she would never meet might wear it, might be surprised after a night on the town when she slipped into a darkened cab and found constellations faintly glowing along her body. But for now it still flowed around Misty, still served its purpose in her life.
"Thank you," she added, quieter still. Two simple words, ones she'd spoken too often to count, but had she ever uttered them quite this sincerely? Had she ever meant them in quite this way?
Her face felt warm, and her feet felt sore, the straps and edges of her shoes chafing against her arches and her ankles. She pondered for a second, weighed her options, and decided to trust.
"Just a second," she said, pausing and kneeling. "If it's, uh, I was going to... take these off for just a few."
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MethodicalSlacker
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It was a relief to hear it from her lips. Max had been fairly certain, simply from the way Misty carried herself throughout the evening, the luminescence of her smile, the ease with which her laugh came, that the answer to his question would be affirmative, but he still held his breath in the few moments between his and her statements. What he had failed to anticipate was gratitude, expressed in the way that she expressed it, and sounding so delicate that he felt that if it were corporeal he could snap it in two just by breathing on it.
Max heard the world around him and wished it quiet. The moment was too precious for these noises, that infernal rumbling ever-present and never asked for. This was why he despised fiction, in many capacities. Nothing could capture the never ending room tone, the mindless smatterings of chattering from passersby, or cars rolling down the street far away, or hounds, unmuzzled, braying against the night. Not words, nor pictures, and not even recordings. It was nothing like being there; simulacrum diluted the sensory, and never in an evocative way. Never the way it would never stop. He would move mountains to get it to stop, for just a moment, for quiet so absolute he could hear his pulse between his ears. They were not alone enough. Alone enough was impossible. Hadn't that been what he wanted, this whole time? To be alone, enough? Away from the glares, the stares, from everywhere?
In the moment, this train of thought stopped at the first period, though the rest shifted restlessly below the surface as it had been doing so for the duration of their walk.
"Oh, feel free," Max said as Misty took off her shoes.
And something in him moved.
"I was going to say something. You looked like you were in pain, walking with them on. It doesn't look very comfortable, traversi—walking like that."
He looked her in the eyes as a slightly nervous smile began to play upon his lips.
"I could carry them for you, if you want."
If you want to save face by not having to carry your own shoes in public, he almost said, before realizing that the rest wouldn't be a consideration that she necessarily had made, and that it would negatively change her perception of him if he out and out said it now.
Max heard the world around him and wished it quiet. The moment was too precious for these noises, that infernal rumbling ever-present and never asked for. This was why he despised fiction, in many capacities. Nothing could capture the never ending room tone, the mindless smatterings of chattering from passersby, or cars rolling down the street far away, or hounds, unmuzzled, braying against the night. Not words, nor pictures, and not even recordings. It was nothing like being there; simulacrum diluted the sensory, and never in an evocative way. Never the way it would never stop. He would move mountains to get it to stop, for just a moment, for quiet so absolute he could hear his pulse between his ears. They were not alone enough. Alone enough was impossible. Hadn't that been what he wanted, this whole time? To be alone, enough? Away from the glares, the stares, from everywhere?
In the moment, this train of thought stopped at the first period, though the rest shifted restlessly below the surface as it had been doing so for the duration of their walk.
"Oh, feel free," Max said as Misty took off her shoes.
And something in him moved.
"I was going to say something. You looked like you were in pain, walking with them on. It doesn't look very comfortable, traversi—walking like that."
He looked her in the eyes as a slightly nervous smile began to play upon his lips.
"I could carry them for you, if you want."
If you want to save face by not having to carry your own shoes in public, he almost said, before realizing that the rest wouldn't be a consideration that she necessarily had made, and that it would negatively change her perception of him if he out and out said it now.
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MurderWeasel
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"Thanks," Misty said, as she worked her feet free. It was more casual this time, reflexive, and she hated the way it felt like a cheap imitation of her words seconds before. Wasn't there some better way to acknowledge light gratitude, to convey appreciation of the simple sort? She stretched her toes, up and then down, looking at them. They were so very small and pale. She did not go barefoot much, so they were free of the light tan of her legs and arms. She hoped she didn't look stupid.
Max had noticed her discomfort earlier. She thought herself pretty good at masking feelings much of the time, but he was more astute than most, and this was out of the norm for her. Should she say as much? Did he notice that she wore sneakers to school on most days? Would he be disappointed?
"Some women get really used to them," she settled on. "My mom had this friend in college who wore them every day. After a while, she couldn't walk normally in flats anymore."
She wasn't using this anecdote intentionally to establish that her mom had been to college and therefore they weren't total white trash. She really wasn't.
"Something about tendons I think," she said.
Would that ever be her? Hobbled by tradition and expectations? She didn't think so, but not necessarily for lack of trying. What was ambition without opportunity? But she made herself stop thinking about that. She was good at that, realizing where her consciousness was going and pulling it back in or turning it off for a moment. She did it intentionally, and that kept her from feeling bad about it. The mind was a tool like any other, one that could be honed and exercised and polished.
She straightened up, feeling the cement rough and cool under her toes. She'd have to keep one eye to the ground for the rest of the walk. This evening would not end with a sliver of broken bottle and a trip to the emergency room. It would not end with her trying to scrape dog shit off with clumps of grass. She wouldn't allow it.
And Max's offer? She considered the shoes in her hand for a moment, then shifted her belongings around, dangling them from her right hand along with her clutch. It was a little awkward, a little clumsy. Maybe she should've taken him up and handed them over after all. Maybe that was smarter. But it was sweet, and that was part of why she, instead, hesitantly, held out her now-empty left hand towards him, a very small smile starting to form.
Max had noticed her discomfort earlier. She thought herself pretty good at masking feelings much of the time, but he was more astute than most, and this was out of the norm for her. Should she say as much? Did he notice that she wore sneakers to school on most days? Would he be disappointed?
"Some women get really used to them," she settled on. "My mom had this friend in college who wore them every day. After a while, she couldn't walk normally in flats anymore."
She wasn't using this anecdote intentionally to establish that her mom had been to college and therefore they weren't total white trash. She really wasn't.
"Something about tendons I think," she said.
Would that ever be her? Hobbled by tradition and expectations? She didn't think so, but not necessarily for lack of trying. What was ambition without opportunity? But she made herself stop thinking about that. She was good at that, realizing where her consciousness was going and pulling it back in or turning it off for a moment. She did it intentionally, and that kept her from feeling bad about it. The mind was a tool like any other, one that could be honed and exercised and polished.
She straightened up, feeling the cement rough and cool under her toes. She'd have to keep one eye to the ground for the rest of the walk. This evening would not end with a sliver of broken bottle and a trip to the emergency room. It would not end with her trying to scrape dog shit off with clumps of grass. She wouldn't allow it.
And Max's offer? She considered the shoes in her hand for a moment, then shifted her belongings around, dangling them from her right hand along with her clutch. It was a little awkward, a little clumsy. Maybe she should've taken him up and handed them over after all. Maybe that was smarter. But it was sweet, and that was part of why she, instead, hesitantly, held out her now-empty left hand towards him, a very small smile starting to form.
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MethodicalSlacker
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Every day? Max shuddered at the thought, though only in part because of the idea of the discomfort one would go through in order to subject themselves to such things. Momentarily his mind wandered to something he had read about foot bindings in China, and briefly he considered just how absurd the shape of a foot was, before he was snapped back to attention by Misty holding the wrong hand towards him.
The wrong hand, he noted internally, as a faint warmth settled in his chest, for the right reason.
Graciously, delicately, he took her hand. The nervousness was almost gone from his smile; if he were to describe the feeling once more, he would choose the word sheepish instead. He had really closed himself off from everyone else over the last several years, hadn't he? Enough that contact as rote and simple as this made his heart beat a little faster, his chest feel a little warmer, his smile more broad.
Her hand felt small, compared to his own. Growing up, Max had occasionally worried about the size of his hands. Pressing them against the likes of the Carter twins', they were dwarfed. In fact, with most of his classmates, he had always surmised that the meager size of his hands was something they jested about behind his back, while he was out of earshot. With Misty, now, he was curious as to whether they had somehow grown, whether her's were just small, or a combination of the two.
His gaze, however, was not fixated on her hand, and the way their fingers interlaced with one another, though it had briefly shifted to do such, momentarily. Max was looking her in the eyes again. He said the first thing that came to his mind.
"When I was a kid, I put my mother's high heeled shoes on, walked a step, and fell on my face, but I was too embarrassed to tell my mother the real reason for why there was a goose egg on my forehead, so I hid in my bedroom until she came in to call me for dinner, and I told her that I ran into a wall."
The wrong hand, he noted internally, as a faint warmth settled in his chest, for the right reason.
Graciously, delicately, he took her hand. The nervousness was almost gone from his smile; if he were to describe the feeling once more, he would choose the word sheepish instead. He had really closed himself off from everyone else over the last several years, hadn't he? Enough that contact as rote and simple as this made his heart beat a little faster, his chest feel a little warmer, his smile more broad.
Her hand felt small, compared to his own. Growing up, Max had occasionally worried about the size of his hands. Pressing them against the likes of the Carter twins', they were dwarfed. In fact, with most of his classmates, he had always surmised that the meager size of his hands was something they jested about behind his back, while he was out of earshot. With Misty, now, he was curious as to whether they had somehow grown, whether her's were just small, or a combination of the two.
His gaze, however, was not fixated on her hand, and the way their fingers interlaced with one another, though it had briefly shifted to do such, momentarily. Max was looking her in the eyes again. He said the first thing that came to his mind.
"When I was a kid, I put my mother's high heeled shoes on, walked a step, and fell on my face, but I was too embarrassed to tell my mother the real reason for why there was a goose egg on my forehead, so I hid in my bedroom until she came in to call me for dinner, and I told her that I ran into a wall."
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MurderWeasel
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Misty didn't laugh. Thank goodness she didn't laugh, because maybe Max would understand that she was laughing with him at the foibles and follies of childhood but maybe he'd think her laughter was more like it normally was, that it was barbed and mocking, that she was laughing at him for having been ashamed or for having dared to do something unmanly as playing in his mother's shoes. Instead, her smile blossomed wide, hated gap on full display. Somehow, right now, it felt a little more distant than it normally did when she remembered it.
Max's hand in hers was warm, his fingers entwined with hers, a fit that felt in this instant perfect. His eyes were such a pale blue, a shade not too different from her own, but somehow while she always thought hers unremarkable, his were striking. Maybe it was the lighting, a glow from the streetlights that kept it from ever being truly dark where people lived and kept all but the brightest of stars from being clearly visible. Maybe it was just that they were Max's.
"We have this sliding glass door to our patio," she said, carried by impulse more than anything rational. "I was sitting out there reading and my mom thought it was too drafty and closed it. I didn't notice and when I went to go inside I walked straight into the door and knocked myself over and made my nose bleed."
Her grip on his hand was firm. His skin against hers felt smooth. She'd held hands before, often, in contexts platonic and otherwise, and had always liked the feeling. It told her she wasn't alone. When they played those silly games in class, introducing themselves to each other, if it was something that made them hold hands, Misty was always the last to let go, even if she hated whoever's hand she was holding. Why didn't she ever think of it when she wasn't doing it?
"That was... two months ago?" she continued, and now she did let herself laugh.
Max's hand in hers was warm, his fingers entwined with hers, a fit that felt in this instant perfect. His eyes were such a pale blue, a shade not too different from her own, but somehow while she always thought hers unremarkable, his were striking. Maybe it was the lighting, a glow from the streetlights that kept it from ever being truly dark where people lived and kept all but the brightest of stars from being clearly visible. Maybe it was just that they were Max's.
"We have this sliding glass door to our patio," she said, carried by impulse more than anything rational. "I was sitting out there reading and my mom thought it was too drafty and closed it. I didn't notice and when I went to go inside I walked straight into the door and knocked myself over and made my nose bleed."
Her grip on his hand was firm. His skin against hers felt smooth. She'd held hands before, often, in contexts platonic and otherwise, and had always liked the feeling. It told her she wasn't alone. When they played those silly games in class, introducing themselves to each other, if it was something that made them hold hands, Misty was always the last to let go, even if she hated whoever's hand she was holding. Why didn't she ever think of it when she wasn't doing it?
"That was... two months ago?" she continued, and now she did let herself laugh.
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MethodicalSlacker
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"Isn't that something that birds do? Heh."
Max laughed along as well. It was lighthearted talk, befitting of an evening like this. It was harder to think when talking, and Max appreciated that greatly. He wondered if Misty could see the consternation on his face earlier, and if she could tell that the expression had lifted, the weight gone from his broad shoulders.
"Let's keep on walking," Max said, "we can conver—talk more on the way."
The night was short, and if they stayed out here on the street corner for too long a time Max worried that it would run out from beneath his feet. He was looking forward to whatever lengthy discussion they could have at her place. Surprisingly, he found himself wishing for some wine or other alcoholic beverage, despite the fact that normally he was starkly opposed to consumption of such drink. If there was ever an occasion for that sort of merriment, this was it, he was convinced.
"I should go out for walks like this more often," he remarked innocently.
Companionship would not go unappreciated, Max wanted to add, but found himself unable.
Max laughed along as well. It was lighthearted talk, befitting of an evening like this. It was harder to think when talking, and Max appreciated that greatly. He wondered if Misty could see the consternation on his face earlier, and if she could tell that the expression had lifted, the weight gone from his broad shoulders.
"Let's keep on walking," Max said, "we can conver—talk more on the way."
The night was short, and if they stayed out here on the street corner for too long a time Max worried that it would run out from beneath his feet. He was looking forward to whatever lengthy discussion they could have at her place. Surprisingly, he found himself wishing for some wine or other alcoholic beverage, despite the fact that normally he was starkly opposed to consumption of such drink. If there was ever an occasion for that sort of merriment, this was it, he was convinced.
"I should go out for walks like this more often," he remarked innocently.
Companionship would not go unappreciated, Max wanted to add, but found himself unable.
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MurderWeasel
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"Mm," Misty said, "me too."
She meant it. It wasn't that she didn't walk much; really, she got around that way more often than not, walking or taking the bus or bumming rides because she hadn't yet learned how to drive because the last thing anyone in the family needed was to be worrying about more car insurance payments and it wasn't like she cared that much anyways. But there was some grand elemental difference between walking and taking a walk. It wasn't just that the former was functional and the latter recreational; after all, right now they were walking to get to her house. Maybe it was that taking a walk suggested a degree of relaxation and ease and freedom from worry, while remaining a step or two removed from the saccharine "taking a stroll," which Misty wasn't entirely sure she'd done in her life.
"It's easy to get so caught up in things," she said, "and forget to enjoy moments like this."
Like the way her toes felt better freed from her shoes, the way her gait returned to normal even if she dropped a couple inches. Like the way Max's fingers were still tangled up in hers, the way they found a pace together that moved them along but didn't make her feel rushed. Like the way the smells of the city masked other scents, a faint odor of grass and heat and pleasant dampness. Like the way she felt, for a change, pretty and elegant and interesting instead of merely meaner and more clever than everybody else.
So often, when Misty felt comfortable and powerful, it came over her whole body as a wave of frosty wind, an icy gale she conjured up to protect and deflect and to freeze anyone who opposed her. But right now, though there was a breeze and it was just a hair chilly, what she felt most of all was warm. She was wrapped in a muggy mist, perhaps, and it wasn't something she was ready to turn on anyone who crossed her, but it didn't have to be. Because, thinking about it, she didn't feel powerful in this moment so much as she felt she for once didn't need to be.
She meant it. It wasn't that she didn't walk much; really, she got around that way more often than not, walking or taking the bus or bumming rides because she hadn't yet learned how to drive because the last thing anyone in the family needed was to be worrying about more car insurance payments and it wasn't like she cared that much anyways. But there was some grand elemental difference between walking and taking a walk. It wasn't just that the former was functional and the latter recreational; after all, right now they were walking to get to her house. Maybe it was that taking a walk suggested a degree of relaxation and ease and freedom from worry, while remaining a step or two removed from the saccharine "taking a stroll," which Misty wasn't entirely sure she'd done in her life.
"It's easy to get so caught up in things," she said, "and forget to enjoy moments like this."
Like the way her toes felt better freed from her shoes, the way her gait returned to normal even if she dropped a couple inches. Like the way Max's fingers were still tangled up in hers, the way they found a pace together that moved them along but didn't make her feel rushed. Like the way the smells of the city masked other scents, a faint odor of grass and heat and pleasant dampness. Like the way she felt, for a change, pretty and elegant and interesting instead of merely meaner and more clever than everybody else.
So often, when Misty felt comfortable and powerful, it came over her whole body as a wave of frosty wind, an icy gale she conjured up to protect and deflect and to freeze anyone who opposed her. But right now, though there was a breeze and it was just a hair chilly, what she felt most of all was warm. She was wrapped in a muggy mist, perhaps, and it wasn't something she was ready to turn on anyone who crossed her, but it didn't have to be. Because, thinking about it, she didn't feel powerful in this moment so much as she felt she for once didn't need to be.
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MethodicalSlacker
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"Agreed," Max said, "I mean, yes. It can be nice to stop and smell the roses, every now and again."
She did smell nice. He wondered if she had put on some perfume, or if she had used scented shampoo, but he could smell it from where he was and it was a pleasant scent. Or quite possibly that was only the way she was. Some people just were. He had been informed, on numerous occasions, that he smelled nice by relatives. They would seek to embrace him momentarily in a hug, and he would oblige, and those cousins closer in age to him would ask him what soaps he used. This perplexed him. He did not use anything special. His bathing products were not flavored with any specific smell or another. Perhaps that was just his natural odor.
"I wonder how many more moments like this there will be, in the future. Society progresses at an alarming rate. It's more and more difficult to find a quiet space."
He looked over at her, and wondered what her plans for the future were. Where she'd be going, in the fall. The chances of it being anywhere near him were close to nil. He was heading to the north, entering the Ivy League system. Was Misty going to a T20, or T50, or T100 even? Or were her aims set on a smaller school? Either prospect was valid.
"UPenn is an urban campus," he said matter of factly, "I don't think that it will be easy to find a moment of peace there."
She did smell nice. He wondered if she had put on some perfume, or if she had used scented shampoo, but he could smell it from where he was and it was a pleasant scent. Or quite possibly that was only the way she was. Some people just were. He had been informed, on numerous occasions, that he smelled nice by relatives. They would seek to embrace him momentarily in a hug, and he would oblige, and those cousins closer in age to him would ask him what soaps he used. This perplexed him. He did not use anything special. His bathing products were not flavored with any specific smell or another. Perhaps that was just his natural odor.
"I wonder how many more moments like this there will be, in the future. Society progresses at an alarming rate. It's more and more difficult to find a quiet space."
He looked over at her, and wondered what her plans for the future were. Where she'd be going, in the fall. The chances of it being anywhere near him were close to nil. He was heading to the north, entering the Ivy League system. Was Misty going to a T20, or T50, or T100 even? Or were her aims set on a smaller school? Either prospect was valid.
"UPenn is an urban campus," he said matter of factly, "I don't think that it will be easy to find a moment of peace there."
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MurderWeasel
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There it was, the reminder. This moment, eternal as it might feel within its own confines, was emphatically transient. They would reach Misty's house, and the evening would progress, and then it would end and life would sweep them along their own paths. Whatever the remainder of the school year could bring, it too would finish, and the arcs of their lives would diverge. There was no helping it, and the story of that separation began years before either of them were even born.
When Misty heard about the plans of her classmates, the Ivy League placements and the already-burgeoning business or entertainment enterprises and the athletic expectations, more often than not it filled her with a combination of fury and shame. How dare they all be so lucky? That's what she'd ask herself. How dare they take for granted that their parents were rich, that they rolled the dice right and hit on some stupid YouTube niche that made tweens send them their allowance, that genetics made them big and strong and resistant to pain? With those same opportunities, she could take the world by storm too. With a head start like that, she would've left them all in the dust years ago.
But that wasn't how she felt when Max talked about it. Yes, his parents were rich, and yes he'd had natural advantages, but he'd also worked hard. She'd seen it, had seen him in the library carrying a project, had seen the way he held himself and acted to others. He didn't hide when he was better, but he also didn't take what he was given for granted, she thought. Hearing him talk about his plans made her happy and sad, happy for him, and sad because, no matter how much he deserved his world, it still wasn't hers.
"I think there will always be something," Misty said. "It may get harder to find, but for... for the sort of people who need it, or want it, it'll be there. If you know where to look, or else maybe if you make it yourself."
Maybe she should've let it rest there. The quiet they were discussing could so easily have descended and spared her the need to acknowledge all that was running through her head. Bit that felt disrespectful, and more than that she was afraid that, if left below the surface, it would color everything after.
"You're going to do something great with your life," she said. "I know it."
And then, quietly, eyes averted to the ground to watch for obstacles that didn't exist but fingers twined ever so tightly with his:
"I'm... probably not."
When Misty heard about the plans of her classmates, the Ivy League placements and the already-burgeoning business or entertainment enterprises and the athletic expectations, more often than not it filled her with a combination of fury and shame. How dare they all be so lucky? That's what she'd ask herself. How dare they take for granted that their parents were rich, that they rolled the dice right and hit on some stupid YouTube niche that made tweens send them their allowance, that genetics made them big and strong and resistant to pain? With those same opportunities, she could take the world by storm too. With a head start like that, she would've left them all in the dust years ago.
But that wasn't how she felt when Max talked about it. Yes, his parents were rich, and yes he'd had natural advantages, but he'd also worked hard. She'd seen it, had seen him in the library carrying a project, had seen the way he held himself and acted to others. He didn't hide when he was better, but he also didn't take what he was given for granted, she thought. Hearing him talk about his plans made her happy and sad, happy for him, and sad because, no matter how much he deserved his world, it still wasn't hers.
"I think there will always be something," Misty said. "It may get harder to find, but for... for the sort of people who need it, or want it, it'll be there. If you know where to look, or else maybe if you make it yourself."
Maybe she should've let it rest there. The quiet they were discussing could so easily have descended and spared her the need to acknowledge all that was running through her head. Bit that felt disrespectful, and more than that she was afraid that, if left below the surface, it would color everything after.
"You're going to do something great with your life," she said. "I know it."
And then, quietly, eyes averted to the ground to watch for obstacles that didn't exist but fingers twined ever so tightly with his:
"I'm... probably not."
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MethodicalSlacker
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Max glanced at Misty quizzically.
"And why do you say that?" Max asked, though he could make an educated guess as to her reasoning. His mind had been occupied heretofore with assumptions about what journey Misty was set to embark on, after graduation, but perhaps that had been an oversight. Perhaps her plans were not totally solidified. Maybe she was not attending an institution of higher learning in the autumn months. Or maybe fate had deigned that she should attend a school of less renown and repute than was fitting of one of her intelligence and stature. Either way, she was not happy. He could read as much from her distraught countenance.
He was silent for a moment. Then, he tightened his grip on her head by a smidgen before taking a deep breath.
"Misty," he said,
"though it may seem that a good future full of meaningful things is pendant above a wide chasm, out of your grasp, I don't believe that you should be so distraught. Where you spend the next four, or two, or five, or eight years, it does not define your true self. Diogenes, contrarian that he was, influenced others greatly as a homeless man, a wayward vagabond in a time when..."
No, that tactic wasn't working. Too much logos. Not enough pathos.
"But none of that Greek nonsense matters, really," Max continued, "the greatest thing that one can do with their life is to spend it making others happy."
He smiled quietly, looking with compassion at his companion.
"And judging by how tonight has gone, I think you're already off to a good start with that."
"And why do you say that?" Max asked, though he could make an educated guess as to her reasoning. His mind had been occupied heretofore with assumptions about what journey Misty was set to embark on, after graduation, but perhaps that had been an oversight. Perhaps her plans were not totally solidified. Maybe she was not attending an institution of higher learning in the autumn months. Or maybe fate had deigned that she should attend a school of less renown and repute than was fitting of one of her intelligence and stature. Either way, she was not happy. He could read as much from her distraught countenance.
He was silent for a moment. Then, he tightened his grip on her head by a smidgen before taking a deep breath.
"Misty," he said,
"though it may seem that a good future full of meaningful things is pendant above a wide chasm, out of your grasp, I don't believe that you should be so distraught. Where you spend the next four, or two, or five, or eight years, it does not define your true self. Diogenes, contrarian that he was, influenced others greatly as a homeless man, a wayward vagabond in a time when..."
No, that tactic wasn't working. Too much logos. Not enough pathos.
"But none of that Greek nonsense matters, really," Max continued, "the greatest thing that one can do with their life is to spend it making others happy."
He smiled quietly, looking with compassion at his companion.
"And judging by how tonight has gone, I think you're already off to a good start with that."
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MurderWeasel
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Max recovered nicely. That he caught it—no, that he cared enough to pay attention to her and to put aside what was probably well-intentioned, and what at some other, less vulnerable moment would've been fascinating to her and likely received in the spirit in which it was offered—meant more to her than anything he said. It lifted a weight from her, one she hadn't known she'd been laboring under, because he had in an instant resolved two of the little irrational worries that had been lingering over her.
He had, first off, shown himself to be imperfect. It had been distant, faraway, but there had been times tonight where things had been going so well and she'd been wondering if he was doing what he was doing just to impress her, or worse, going through the steps by the book because he was that sort of person, the kind who would put on a smile even as he mentally gritted his teeth through her inane prattling. It hadn't been strong, hadn't even felt potentially real since some time well before she offered him her hand, but now the side of Max that she knew her classmates didn't find quite as charming as she did had shown through once more, in the guise of Diogenes, whoever he was, and had as summarily been banished. And the reason for the exorcism could not have been more clear.
And then, of course, he'd directly expressed concern for her and had told her that she wasn't beneath him. He'd given her credit, so much more credit than she deserved. It touched her, and just then she wanted to be the sort of person who merited those words. Life sounded so logical, laid out like that. Making others happy was a good thing. It was positivity, a net improvement to the world. To be able to make someone feel like Misty was feeling now, that was incredible power in its own way. And Max didn't couch it in gendered things, didn't imply that was the place for a woman rather than out doing actually great things, even used the neutral pronoun (and Misty was aware always of such things) with elegance and perfect precision.
But Misty didn't make people happy, categorically at least. She made Max happy, she supposed, and a few of her friends, and her family sometimes. Mostly, though, she made her peers profoundly unhappy, just as they did to her. She found glee in Ariana covered in a deluge of paint, not in the thought of offering to help clean her up. She opened her mouth, maybe to admit to this, or to argue against herself, but she just couldn't find it in her. The night was too beautiful, the world between her toes too smooth, the hand in her palm too warm and real, and damn the future and damn her doubts, she could be honest with herself and admit this moment meant something, at least right now.
So she closed her mouth again, and stopped walking, and turned towards Max and reached out to pull him into a hug, not bothered one bit by the awkwardness with her free hand still full of clutch and shoes. And as she smiled at him, the words came easy and light.
"Thank you," she said, beaming, "but I think you're still just a little step ahead of me in that respect too."
He had, first off, shown himself to be imperfect. It had been distant, faraway, but there had been times tonight where things had been going so well and she'd been wondering if he was doing what he was doing just to impress her, or worse, going through the steps by the book because he was that sort of person, the kind who would put on a smile even as he mentally gritted his teeth through her inane prattling. It hadn't been strong, hadn't even felt potentially real since some time well before she offered him her hand, but now the side of Max that she knew her classmates didn't find quite as charming as she did had shown through once more, in the guise of Diogenes, whoever he was, and had as summarily been banished. And the reason for the exorcism could not have been more clear.
And then, of course, he'd directly expressed concern for her and had told her that she wasn't beneath him. He'd given her credit, so much more credit than she deserved. It touched her, and just then she wanted to be the sort of person who merited those words. Life sounded so logical, laid out like that. Making others happy was a good thing. It was positivity, a net improvement to the world. To be able to make someone feel like Misty was feeling now, that was incredible power in its own way. And Max didn't couch it in gendered things, didn't imply that was the place for a woman rather than out doing actually great things, even used the neutral pronoun (and Misty was aware always of such things) with elegance and perfect precision.
But Misty didn't make people happy, categorically at least. She made Max happy, she supposed, and a few of her friends, and her family sometimes. Mostly, though, she made her peers profoundly unhappy, just as they did to her. She found glee in Ariana covered in a deluge of paint, not in the thought of offering to help clean her up. She opened her mouth, maybe to admit to this, or to argue against herself, but she just couldn't find it in her. The night was too beautiful, the world between her toes too smooth, the hand in her palm too warm and real, and damn the future and damn her doubts, she could be honest with herself and admit this moment meant something, at least right now.
So she closed her mouth again, and stopped walking, and turned towards Max and reached out to pull him into a hug, not bothered one bit by the awkwardness with her free hand still full of clutch and shoes. And as she smiled at him, the words came easy and light.
"Thank you," she said, beaming, "but I think you're still just a little step ahead of me in that respect too."
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MethodicalSlacker
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At first, Max wasn't entirely sure what was happening. As Misty wrapped her arms around him, his own appendages rose in surprise. To be completely frank, a not so insignificant portion of him thought that she was assaulting him, tackling him for insulting her in some way, for a faux pas so grave that it had wholly torn through her entire being. In doing so, he had underestimated the capacity of his words to actually be successful at their intended ends.
Upon realizing precisely what was happening, Max dropped the defensive stance and returned the hug, enfolding her in his arms. In another moment, Max might have mentally remarked on the capacity for human beings for compassion and the hope he occasionally felt himself filled with upon observing this in motion, if this was any other time. Likewise, he might have briefly mused on the fact that all such embraces and showings of affection must end. The space between any twinned pair of events is defined not only by the existence of a before, but the presupposition and general assumption of the existence of an after. To spend too much time in between is to perish, effectively, he has considered on several occasions during which he was exposed to this pleasant feeling of being, momentarily, content.
But not on this one.
Right now, he was purely concerned with this feels nice, and I just want to stay like this for a while, and it feels really, really nice.
He opened his mouth to say something, but realized that he wanted to stay in the space between events for just a little more time, and spoiling the moment with words would move time forwards prematurely. He knew it didn't make sense.
Upon realizing precisely what was happening, Max dropped the defensive stance and returned the hug, enfolding her in his arms. In another moment, Max might have mentally remarked on the capacity for human beings for compassion and the hope he occasionally felt himself filled with upon observing this in motion, if this was any other time. Likewise, he might have briefly mused on the fact that all such embraces and showings of affection must end. The space between any twinned pair of events is defined not only by the existence of a before, but the presupposition and general assumption of the existence of an after. To spend too much time in between is to perish, effectively, he has considered on several occasions during which he was exposed to this pleasant feeling of being, momentarily, content.
But not on this one.
Right now, he was purely concerned with this feels nice, and I just want to stay like this for a while, and it feels really, really nice.
He opened his mouth to say something, but realized that he wanted to stay in the space between events for just a little more time, and spoiling the moment with words would move time forwards prematurely. He knew it didn't make sense.
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MurderWeasel
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Max tensed, and Misty thought for a moment that she'd done something wrong. Had she misread the situation so totally? Had she offended? Or was she, perhaps, making a different sort of mistake, broaching some boundary meaningful to him that wouldn't occur to her in a thousand year? Some people were strongly opposed to physical contact. Should she have explicitly asked?
But then he relaxed and loosened up and hugged her back, and that was all it took for the tension to bleed out of the situation, carrying Misty's worries with it.
Her focus was purely on the hug, on the way Max felt pressed against her. He was taller, but not so much that he towered over her. He was fit, solid in a way nobody would ever call stocky, and he even felt refined, or maybe that was just how smooth and obviously well-made his suit was. His arms around her were both gentle and firm, offering security and comfort, and Misty had hugged people plenty of times before, but there was something about this night that was different.
Was it just the novelty? The grand societal expectations, and the incredible way that her own experience hadn't utterly failed to live up to them? Some quirk of timing, as the end of the year barreled towards them and she was left with scant few opportunities to make high school memories?
Any of those was possible, but belief was a choice and Misty chose to think it was because of who she was sharing it with.
But then he relaxed and loosened up and hugged her back, and that was all it took for the tension to bleed out of the situation, carrying Misty's worries with it.
Her focus was purely on the hug, on the way Max felt pressed against her. He was taller, but not so much that he towered over her. He was fit, solid in a way nobody would ever call stocky, and he even felt refined, or maybe that was just how smooth and obviously well-made his suit was. His arms around her were both gentle and firm, offering security and comfort, and Misty had hugged people plenty of times before, but there was something about this night that was different.
Was it just the novelty? The grand societal expectations, and the incredible way that her own experience hadn't utterly failed to live up to them? Some quirk of timing, as the end of the year barreled towards them and she was left with scant few opportunities to make high school memories?
Any of those was possible, but belief was a choice and Misty chose to think it was because of who she was sharing it with.