The concert of the century continues as I get up at six am sharp, open all the doors save for Henry's wing and blast them with my renditions of all of my favourite love songs, lyrics changed. Raise a showgirl, expect a performance, I say.
(Raise a freak, expect a freakshow.)
Guess there is something, and there is nothing
There is nothing in between
And in my eyes, there is a tiny dancer
Watching over me, she's singing
I'm a I'm a lady, and you are just a boy
She's singing I'm a I'm a lady, and you are just a line without a hook
Lochlan comes down and closes the cover on the keys. On my fingers. Enough.
You're enough.
I hoped I would be, at one point.
And now?
Now I don't know anymore.
You invited him for Saturday. I would have been fine until Ostara.
Right.
You don't know me.
I do though. Better than I know myself.
If that were true-
Oh, please, go on.
You would know that yesterday's projections were off the mark.
Prove it.
Trying my best.
He stands his ground and waits. I pick up my phone and send a one-line text.
Saturday's off.
The reply comes in seconds. Tell him to stop being so paranoid. Lochlan, stop being so paranoid.
I hold the phone out, the bitter twisted smile forming a portrait background, our blurred scenery making it so hard to focus anymore it's almost criminal.
Told you, I say victoriously as his face crumples into tears of relief. Now stop trying to ruin Christmas.