“What’s the matter, little Flamme? Can’t keep hold of yourself?” he says suddenly when she opens her eyes again. Though still bearded, he is no longer standing beside her, instead, he is across the room slightly, his abrupt body quiet in white linen and sandals. In a softer voice, older and wiser and full of what he must consider an old man’s mischief, he says, “Have you found the black door yet, the one with the crack on it?”
Hs big hands open, like water pouring into a desert, and instead of his dead heart, there is a very live rabbit there, white furred and huddling, its dark, guileless eyes open and restless. Her lavender gaze lies flayed and ravished by this, for some reason, trembling before the coney’s scruffy scrunched up question of a countenance.
“Maybe I have! It matters not. I shall steal it, whatever you keep there!”
She imagines she looks quite fierce, determined. She is proud of herself. It is in the way she stands up to him.
Why then has she not moved to be closer to him, to show him her pride?
“Hahahaah! Hahahahahahahahah! Well, when you find it, come and get me. It’s not a door to be painted lightly. Although I imagine –she- would think otherwise. You two ought to get along, given time! Hahahaha!”
He walks away, but not before waving his arm at a space down the hall, just out of view.
And why does he laugh so? As though something of minor importance has suddenly become the grandest jest imaginable?