Melita could be perceptive when she yearned to be, when a thousand things didn’t absorb her mind, when her attention wasn’t split between the clouds, the earth, the water, or the air. So she watched as Iskra seemed ruffled, anxious, and perturbed within the gathering, shifting her attention from the strange drink with its enticing fragrance, and back to the older boy. Her brows furrowed, knitted together, concern lacing its way through her heart and mind, pondered how he’d become so flustered, because she’d always seen him as bright, reminding her of the sky, always ablaze in golds and blues. The little, lithe girl whispered, attempted to minimize the attention (for once in her life) she placed, gilded eyes focused and centered entirely on the paragon. “Are you okay?” Then he murmured, a very hushed tone, about the drink, how she should be careful (and what did that mean, because no one had ever mentioned treading lightly, cautiously, warily, towards her before), and not to take too much (when that was all she ever did, snag and grasp, hold and clench). Her eyes were drawn back to the liquid and its intriguing allure, gaze snapping along and watching how the rest of the adults were altered from its intoxicating bellows, wondering how to heed his warning and still dive right into the irresistible urge; taking one more plunge she didn’t understand or comprehend. “Just a little then,” she agreed, lowering her tiny maw, hovering over the refreshment, and sliding her tongue to absorb, then swallow, a few miniscule morsels. The taste was incredibly odd to her, nothing like water, a little bitter, a little rancorous, once the honeysuckle sweetness was swindled from her senses. Her lips drew back in a fine line, contemplating whether she’d enjoyed it and wanted some more, or if it was enough – because then her tiny little frame, never exposed to alcohol, processed it with aplomb, and her mind felt clouded, hazy, stupefied. It rattled her, like she was up in the atmosphere and had no way of coming down. Was this what Iskra meant about change? “Hm,” she considered, then moved to maneuver a little, always in motion, always in action, but the ground seemed difficult to manage, and she stuck one hoof out to the side like a drunken sailor, knees wobbly and shaking. “I feel dizzy,” was her final conclusion, swaying a little in the breeze, but not taking any more of the proffered intoxication.

Melita

let me live that fantasy