When asked about them, she will steady herself on an edge of a piece of furniture in her small houseboat and smile, take a moment, and think. The stories must take place in the part she calls the study, where books and candles fight for height dominance, wavering gently with the water, but never falling over. It is near her tiny kitchen that smells of tea and salt, close enough to the sways of fabric that set apart her bedroom, but not too close. Veronika is a private woman, who wears just enough to appease others on her sleeve. Her smile is gentle and she likes the sensation of touch. Her stories begin with her hand on the knee of the recipient, inviting them to sit down with her on a low set of pillows. She lights a candle and the sunlight peeks in through sheer shades, tinging the entire houseboat in flickering light. For the openness of the water, it is warm, but, Veronika will still rub her hands together and sigh into them before opening them flat before her to offer her tale. Depending on the story, her fingertips will glow in various colors half-way up her arms, fading into the tan of her skin near the curve of her elbow. It isn't an important detail, but, a tell-tale sign of the passage to come. Sometimes, Veronika can't handle her emotions and her colors do it for her.
When not asked for stories, when alone and in the dark, breathing alongside the water under her, Veronika is different. Her smile is worn out and the room smells more like roasted fish than anything else. She takes pleasure in the small comforts and the cooking of food reminds her of her best days. She is easily found sitting cross-legged on her bed, saltwater dripping onto her sheets and a small plate in front of her, fingertips nimbly picking at a fish, excavating the meat from the bones. Alone, Veronika cries as she eats, fat tears sliding down her cheek, caught in the crease of her lips and licked away as seasoning to her meal. Alone, Veronika is less playful, more wistful. The only thing that remains constant is her stories. Even alone, Veronika has time for stories, the heart for it and she whispers them to herself as she ghosts around her houseboat, slides herself under her sheets, discards the remains of her dinner out the window to return it where it came from.
She has stories, even when no one asks.
The stories that remain are hers alone. They are quiet things, tales about the rote monotony of days, a presentation about the way her fingertips hovered over the skin of the water before splashing it, about long sea journeys she didn't undertake by herself. Before Veronika was alone, she had someone else, a beautiful girl who shared in every minute of her passions. Another droplet of water like her to canvas the unknown for treasures, to fill the houseboat with natural gifts, to make it whole with kisses and sighs bigger than the pair of throats that birthed them.
But others tire of storytellers, Veronika was told. Others worry if they are being truthful or just fanciful, biding time to twist the next purely lived adventure into a story to be told. And if asked, Veronika can tell anyone about screams and shouts that rocked the little houseboat when her mermaid decided to leave her side, cast herself into the water and never return. A trail of bubbles that Veronika could never follow. A life form she didn't feel strong enough to follow. Her love, gone, in a sweep of long long legs and long long arms, treading water until so far down that the sun didn't reach.
Veronika finds herself making her days livable and struggles to get herself out of bed. Sometimes, she crashes around the place and cries, scratching her lit fingers against her face and then dissolves into nothing as she looks in the mirror. Red marks on her face are easily found out and Veronika wants nothing more than to be unnoticed. If everyone who ever knew her life could forget, if everyone could not remember how much better she was when someone else had her heart, she would be happier. She keeps up apperances, but, she tires of them all the same.
In the end, Veronika lays her plate on the floor when she is finished eating, she turns over against her sheets and holds back her sobs. When someone comes by in the morning for tea and a visit, she will have a story for them. A story about two beautiful girls who kissed against moonlight and who both dissolved into salt and dust.
She will claim it isn't real - the way she always does. She will, though, wish it was.