Real Folk Blues

THE PRAWN LEANED BACK AGAINST the arm of the sofa, tucking herself into the nook between the back and the arm. It was always a wonder, how people could operate ten fingers so fluidly as to play an instrument absentmindedly. Six fingers seemed more than plenty, and easy enough to fumble things-- ten was overkill.

In any other context, this would have been supremely romantic-- the prawn had been watching enough movies (some of the romantic variety) to be aware of it. They were in a fire-lit space, Kaito had given her his coat, and he was strumming at his guitar-- but she couldn't help but think of the old hippies that hung-out around Berkeley, all grizzled and bearded, busking on the streets and shaming the establishment. One such man had accosted Chief, her caretaker, but was swiftly ignored. Charlotte remembered it clearly. And she smirked as she tried to imagine Kaito with the beard of an outdoors-man.

"Everyone's got their own shit," she said placatingly, lavender eyes prying themselves free of a place on the wall, and wandering towards the boy before her. Charlotte wasn't looking for understanding or pity, but it was a sweet sentiment nonetheless.

Charlie reflected the smile the best she could-- he'd really only be able to see the corners of her eyes pinch.

"I'm glad you saw me, too," Charlotte remarked, a chuckle fringing her tone, "I probably would've gotten jumped if you hadn't stepped in. Or I would've given some punks some flying lessons."

Ah, shockwave punch, touchy subject. She sucked air through her maxillipeds, as if to wince. Time to change back to the original topic...

"We could... meet up again?" Charlotte offered, "You might have to meet me at the station, though..."

Given Charlotte's track record with getting lost, and all.

@arsene

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