now.”
I held up a hand. “I'm not calling anyone Tasha. Come on over. Let's have a seat and talk.” I motioned to her nest and sat down first, setting my cell on the floor to light up a smaller area.
She stepped up to me, moving closer to the exit and put her hand in front of her face, blocking out my face a couple times then settling her eyes on my wrist then my bandanna. Then she looked me up and down again like she did. Then she tilted her head and asked, “Wait, you're that new girl they have working here? You're in one of my classes too... right?”
I deflated a bit, she had seen me dozens of times here and sat right next to me in English Lit, but wasn't sure. I was apparently not very memorable. I nodded and exhaled. “Francine Brighton, Fran.” I offered a hand.
She looked back at the hanging blanket, making a decision between running and sitting. She shook my hand and almost whispered, “Natasha Reed. Just Tasha.” Then she sat as far away from me as she could on the sleeping bag. I noted she had acid-free gloves on like I did.
We stared at each other for a moment, then I looked around. I saw an old, white leather bound book, next to the candle. I reached over to pick it up carefully. I recognized the distinctive wreath of laurels and flowers on the cover. It was an original 1812 Kinder - und Hausmarchen; Children's and Household Tales; by the Brother's Grimm. I smiled at it and carefully looked inside at the German print.
I looked up at her and she shrugged, looking down and bunching her sleeves in her hand. “I wanted to read the originals to see how they differed from the English, toned down versions. I wasn't stealing it. I was going to put it back when I was done.” This was from the Archives?
I smiled and said, “I've been reading books from the Archives on my breaks. There are so may fascinating books here.” Then I tilted my head at the book. “It would be provocatively stimulating to read the books in their native dialect. I'm only proficient in, English, and ASL. Though I did partake of two years of Japanese in secondary school.”
She smiled at her hands. “You have an odd vocabulary.”
Another awkward silence followed so I prompted, “I'm a logophile, I just love words. You speak German?”
She nodded and I tilted my head down to catch her eyes, was she blushing? She smiled and shrugged. “English, German, French, Russian, and Latin. My aunt taught me. Even some American, which she swore wasn't English.”
I scrunched up my face and was about to profess that we speak English in the U.S., but then it turned into a chuckle when she said, “Y'all.”
Then her face hardened a bit and she said just above a whisper, “Stop being nice to me. Why aren't you asking why I'm living in an attic like anyone else would?”
I shrugged, I realized I hadn't really cared why. There is always a reason, and it usually comes with great emotional pain, and I didn't want her to relive any of that pain. “You don't know me yet. How can you trust me? I've been where you are, and I still might ask later. It would be rude for me to now, I'm a guest in your home.”
Why the hell did I find her shyness so alluring? And those hazel eyes of hers took on the highlights from her curly red mane. I had to stop myself from reaching over and brushing some of those delightfully delectable locks away from her face.
She was examining me, I mean, really examining. She was looking closely at my shoes and clothing, my hair and even my hands, but not my face. Was she embarrassed to look at me? I looked around and grabbed a matchbook and lit the candle, then said, “I have to make sure all the patrons in the nooks downstairs have left.” I looked at her stash of foodstuffs and motioned toward them. “I'd love to sit and talk with you over supper. Next time will be on me.” I wasn't about to offer now. I remember how it
I held up a hand. “I'm not calling anyone Tasha. Come on over. Let's have a seat and talk.” I motioned to her nest and sat down first, setting my cell on the floor to light up a smaller area.
She stepped up to me, moving closer to the exit and put her hand in front of her face, blocking out my face a couple times then settling her eyes on my wrist then my bandanna. Then she looked me up and down again like she did. Then she tilted her head and asked, “Wait, you're that new girl they have working here? You're in one of my classes too... right?”
I deflated a bit, she had seen me dozens of times here and sat right next to me in English Lit, but wasn't sure. I was apparently not very memorable. I nodded and exhaled. “Francine Brighton, Fran.” I offered a hand.
She looked back at the hanging blanket, making a decision between running and sitting. She shook my hand and almost whispered, “Natasha Reed. Just Tasha.” Then she sat as far away from me as she could on the sleeping bag. I noted she had acid-free gloves on like I did.
We stared at each other for a moment, then I looked around. I saw an old, white leather bound book, next to the candle. I reached over to pick it up carefully. I recognized the distinctive wreath of laurels and flowers on the cover. It was an original 1812 Kinder - und Hausmarchen; Children's and Household Tales; by the Brother's Grimm. I smiled at it and carefully looked inside at the German print.
I looked up at her and she shrugged, looking down and bunching her sleeves in her hand. “I wanted to read the originals to see how they differed from the English, toned down versions. I wasn't stealing it. I was going to put it back when I was done.” This was from the Archives?
I smiled and said, “I've been reading books from the Archives on my breaks. There are so may fascinating books here.” Then I tilted my head at the book. “It would be provocatively stimulating to read the books in their native dialect. I'm only proficient in, English, and ASL. Though I did partake of two years of Japanese in secondary school.”
She smiled at her hands. “You have an odd vocabulary.”
Another awkward silence followed so I prompted, “I'm a logophile, I just love words. You speak German?”
She nodded and I tilted my head down to catch her eyes, was she blushing? She smiled and shrugged. “English, German, French, Russian, and Latin. My aunt taught me. Even some American, which she swore wasn't English.”
I scrunched up my face and was about to profess that we speak English in the U.S., but then it turned into a chuckle when she said, “Y'all.”
Then her face hardened a bit and she said just above a whisper, “Stop being nice to me. Why aren't you asking why I'm living in an attic like anyone else would?”
I shrugged, I realized I hadn't really cared why. There is always a reason, and it usually comes with great emotional pain, and I didn't want her to relive any of that pain. “You don't know me yet. How can you trust me? I've been where you are, and I still might ask later. It would be rude for me to now, I'm a guest in your home.”
Why the hell did I find her shyness so alluring? And those hazel eyes of hers took on the highlights from her curly red mane. I had to stop myself from reaching over and brushing some of those delightfully delectable locks away from her face.
She was examining me, I mean, really examining. She was looking closely at my shoes and clothing, my hair and even my hands, but not my face. Was she embarrassed to look at me? I looked around and grabbed a matchbook and lit the candle, then said, “I have to make sure all the patrons in the nooks downstairs have left.” I looked at her stash of foodstuffs and motioned toward them. “I'd love to sit and talk with you over supper. Next time will be on me.” I wasn't about to offer now. I remember how it
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