Re: Studio: Wren & Ryan
Wren didn't know mamans that lived long enough to become worn like the living room couch, and she had a vision of the eternal girl, cinnamon hair and always beautiful. She wasn't sure if that was good, and she thought maybe someone old and warm, arms plump and a ready smile, would be better. But she still loved the memory she did have, even if her maman was sad in memory-moments, and even if a family had died in flames, religion on their lips and pews burning wood and incense around them. And Wren knew there was no forgiving the things her maman had done, not to her, not to that family, but she still loved the beautiful girl of memory. She knew that she, herself, was turning into the worn couch, and the children took her being there as a given, and she was like those cushions, thinning and thinning, and no one noticed but her.
She'd never knelt on tiles and turned herself inside-out over porcelain, and it showed in wide hips and soft curves. Her belly folded and folded when she sat, and her ass jiggled when she walked, but Wren knew her own sexuality, knew how to wield every curve like the balisongs of her youth. She didn't use any of that much now, not even with Luke, but it was a thing not forgotten, there, there, and as much a part of the cinnamon-haired woman as dissociation, as blanks, as things not felt and nerves deadened by experience.
"I don't know. I've been lonely before for long, long stretches. Not now. Now it's in little gaps, little moments of time when I don't exist to anyone but myself, and that's lonely." She smiled back, returning that infectious brightness. "You have a really, really pretty smile." And it was nice, hearing about being right, about the music and sense. "You dance somewhere better." It wasn't a question, because she remembered, and because it was obvious in the long extension of Ryan's leg as she leaned into that stretch.