Standing there in her CEO attire, she doesn't ask me what's wrong. Doesn't question what I meant by what I just said.
> Stupid wolf. <
Doesn't demand an explanation for why I stopped responding earlier. Or why I'm standing here with a half-butchered bear looking at the ground between us instead of at her face.
> Because I didn't want to be seen, yet. <
Her eventual footsteps closer are intentionally heavy on the tarp. Giving me time to hear her coming. To object aloud, if I wanted to.
> I don't. But I don't want to be consoled yet, either. <
Clean snow that overtakes the smell of fat, bloody iron that is so much more potent than what congeals nearby, and a pomegranate undertone as my face droops toward her red blouse.
When her fingers brush over mine, I'm sure that's what she intends to do. Then the knife in my hand is steadied and leaves my grip… while I'm still reeling from her scents up close.
