03-07-2022, 05:53 AM
It took him a moment to realize the first thing he had noticed about her. Not her loud hat, or her loud clothing, or her loud entourage, or her loud cross-dressing, or even her own loudness (which, to be fair, was one of the loud things she had not left behind) … but her hair. The one other loud part of her that could hardly be snatched away, any more than the voice she fretted so endlessly over (God, he hoped she enjoyed it baking like a loaf in the middle of summer per her maliciously followed instructions).
Mugging? Is that what left her in these straits? With a flat look, Zechariah reached into his pocket and pulled out a gold-accented pocket watch (which was far less modestly rendered than the rest of him this day). He flipped it open, looked at it, then looked back to her.
“Why, according to this, my dear Ruth, your letter arrived …” the pleasant pretense dropped, and his annoyance dripped off: “today.”
Even Nesah had saved him the trouble of lugging her over himself by just gently inviting herself through his front door like a cannonball.
He arched skeptical brows at her explanation. Of all the siblings that needed to be more ‘worldly’ … well, he supposed Ruth was less likely to have the redheaded troubles Zechariah Uriel had found himself with.
“It suits you,” Zechariah decided.
Meaning, it suited him because Zechariah’s heaviest lifting these days tended to be more accomplished men’s arguments.
“It is over there, Ruth,” he answered with a gesture to the road, in a patient tone that heavily implied said patience a finite resource.
Though Zechariah was not as smooth shaven as his own standards … Zechariah was a diva. There might be stubble to the touch, but the main indicator that he had not shaved in the last five minutes was no smell of aftershave.
He could see it in her eyes, searching for answers. A lot had changed … and recently, at that.
“England is offended by bright colors,” Zechariah deadpanned. “They begin to think you have illegal tendencies – those of the likes of Oscar Wilde, if you look too Bohemian.”
His tone had softened by the end of his sentence, bordering even on a look of apology. For all his flamboyance, he had never donned a dress and he had left their mother’s lipstick alone long before puberty.
He chose the lighter luggage to pick up, and then nodded again in the correct direction.
“You were mugged, Ruth?” he guessed, based on the accusations she lodged his way.
Maybe not. She hadn’t inexplicably accused him of abandoning her in Germany, so he doubted her predicament was a victimhood she could utilize.
Mugging? Is that what left her in these straits? With a flat look, Zechariah reached into his pocket and pulled out a gold-accented pocket watch (which was far less modestly rendered than the rest of him this day). He flipped it open, looked at it, then looked back to her.
“Why, according to this, my dear Ruth, your letter arrived …” the pleasant pretense dropped, and his annoyance dripped off: “today.”
Even Nesah had saved him the trouble of lugging her over himself by just gently inviting herself through his front door like a cannonball.
He arched skeptical brows at her explanation. Of all the siblings that needed to be more ‘worldly’ … well, he supposed Ruth was less likely to have the redheaded troubles Zechariah Uriel had found himself with.
“It suits you,” Zechariah decided.
Meaning, it suited him because Zechariah’s heaviest lifting these days tended to be more accomplished men’s arguments.
“It is over there, Ruth,” he answered with a gesture to the road, in a patient tone that heavily implied said patience a finite resource.
Though Zechariah was not as smooth shaven as his own standards … Zechariah was a diva. There might be stubble to the touch, but the main indicator that he had not shaved in the last five minutes was no smell of aftershave.
He could see it in her eyes, searching for answers. A lot had changed … and recently, at that.
“England is offended by bright colors,” Zechariah deadpanned. “They begin to think you have illegal tendencies – those of the likes of Oscar Wilde, if you look too Bohemian.”
His tone had softened by the end of his sentence, bordering even on a look of apology. For all his flamboyance, he had never donned a dress and he had left their mother’s lipstick alone long before puberty.
He chose the lighter luggage to pick up, and then nodded again in the correct direction.
“You were mugged, Ruth?” he guessed, based on the accusations she lodged his way.
Maybe not. She hadn’t inexplicably accused him of abandoning her in Germany, so he doubted her predicament was a victimhood she could utilize.
