Her body was quivering. At first the boy thought she was merely cold. When he looked at her again, he noticed she was dressed in a dress fit for a princess, fairy, or actress, of heavy velvety folds and intricate designs highlighted by golden threads. Here in the dark murky slums of Brooklyn, where he’d come to accompany his parents on visits to his sickly great-aunt, he never reckoned on meeting princesses. Or fairies.
Another glance around assured him that his parents were still on the top step of the old woman’s front door, his father leaning in the doorway and his mother pressing a poinsettia and a basket of goods in those brittle arms, elbows jutting like skeletal hilts of her white-dagger arms. She was busy too, her beady black eyes looking distrustfully at the flower and cookies the younger folk had pushed upon her.
So it was safe. The boy tiptoed closer—softly, so as not to alarm the fairy, lest she fly away. He crouched a couple feet away from her, fascinated by the shaking of her shoulders, as if her body still quivered with the memory of fluttering wings. “Are you cold?” he asked her gently.
The black curls shook from within the nest of her folded arms, and she pulled her knees even closer to her chest. A little closer, the boy thought, and she’d probably force them out of her body on the other side. The thought of a pair of knees jutting out of the girl’s back sent chills down the boy’s own spine. To distract himself, he forced himself to crouch nearer to her.
“Are you okay?” he asked again. His curiosity was hardened by a bittersweet heart-twinge he’d later recognize as sympathy.
The bobbing head stilled a little, as if it had just registered his presence. Her body’s earthquake lessened its tremors.
“My great-aunt Silvia shakes when she’s really cold. Because she’s really thin. Or when she’s sick. Or when she is in her rocking chair. You’re not in a rocking chair, so that cancels that one out.” The boy clamped a hand over his mouth—he was babbling, and he never babbled. He heard his parents farewell-ing Silvia and calling out his name.
“I have to go, but I hope you feel better. You’re absolutely beautiful,” he added, in a rare surge of courage. “You’ve got a pretty dress, and you’ve the nicest hair I’ve ever seen. If I was older, I might want to marry you.” He wasn’t sure about that part, but he’d heard it in a movie once, and it had made the little girl movie-star blush with pleasure. “You take care now.” In a second surge of impulsiveness he stripped off his coat and pushed it against her legs before scampering away after the receding figures of his parents.
He glanced back long enough to see her colorful dress was hidden by the blackness of his cloak. A yellow butterfly fluttered out from her hair. And she was not shaking.
Another glance around assured him that his parents were still on the top step of the old woman’s front door, his father leaning in the doorway and his mother pressing a poinsettia and a basket of goods in those brittle arms, elbows jutting like skeletal hilts of her white-dagger arms. She was busy too, her beady black eyes looking distrustfully at the flower and cookies the younger folk had pushed upon her.
So it was safe. The boy tiptoed closer—softly, so as not to alarm the fairy, lest she fly away. He crouched a couple feet away from her, fascinated by the shaking of her shoulders, as if her body still quivered with the memory of fluttering wings. “Are you cold?” he asked her gently.
The black curls shook from within the nest of her folded arms, and she pulled her knees even closer to her chest. A little closer, the boy thought, and she’d probably force them out of her body on the other side. The thought of a pair of knees jutting out of the girl’s back sent chills down the boy’s own spine. To distract himself, he forced himself to crouch nearer to her.
“Are you okay?” he asked again. His curiosity was hardened by a bittersweet heart-twinge he’d later recognize as sympathy.
The bobbing head stilled a little, as if it had just registered his presence. Her body’s earthquake lessened its tremors.
“My great-aunt Silvia shakes when she’s really cold. Because she’s really thin. Or when she’s sick. Or when she is in her rocking chair. You’re not in a rocking chair, so that cancels that one out.” The boy clamped a hand over his mouth—he was babbling, and he never babbled. He heard his parents farewell-ing Silvia and calling out his name.
“I have to go, but I hope you feel better. You’re absolutely beautiful,” he added, in a rare surge of courage. “You’ve got a pretty dress, and you’ve the nicest hair I’ve ever seen. If I was older, I might want to marry you.” He wasn’t sure about that part, but he’d heard it in a movie once, and it had made the little girl movie-star blush with pleasure. “You take care now.” In a second surge of impulsiveness he stripped off his coat and pushed it against her legs before scampering away after the receding figures of his parents.
He glanced back long enough to see her colorful dress was hidden by the blackness of his cloak. A yellow butterfly fluttered out from her hair. And she was not shaking.
"Angreek87"
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