Sam had to put out an email to stop people from stopping by with food/fruit/flowers/wishes for us as per news of my hand being twice as broken as a week ago and while I was truly enjoying the irony of having distanced conversations with people who have never talked to me (and wouldn't) before but are so starved for socialization and contact that they're reaching out all around, he's right. There's a quarter-century+ of adults here on the point at any given time. One going down is not going to mean they all starve.
But we know you do the lion's share, they wink at me, nameless.
No, actually he does his own share and then some, because I think they mean Lochlan and then I wonder how they learned that nickname. Lion. No one calls him that very often though..
They draw back, confused and dawned that I am probably medicated, and possibly dangerous. They've heard tell of the pretty woman in the floral sundresses, surrounded by an army as if she is the queen.
Close, I nod. Not a queen though, just a princess.
They've heard she was raised by wolves.
Yes, but I've almost domesticated them, I point out. We're close now. They can wear clothes and sit in a room with humans and you might not even notice the difference. I bare my teeth in a smile and they run for their lives, flinging well-wishes and hollow offers over their shoulders, words drowning in their wake.
Sam smiles in amusement.
Cover your teeth, you're scaring the locals.
The gall of not understanding that a commune can cook meals en masse-
They aren't here to help. The cost of a closer look was a pasta casserole.
I'm aware.
But you let them in anyway.
It's an appearance, Sam. Like your suit. So they would think we are fine and they would leave us alone. Life is just an act. I get to play the tortured princess.
The smile leaves his face. Shut up and eat your flowers.