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A young woman enters, looking unperturbed, wearing men's clothing. Three guesses as to why that is?

Jack is finding this whole thing rather anticlimactic. He's having trouble with the hips, certainly, they're wider and keep hitting things like kitchen counters and doorframes. But at least, look on the bright side, his breasts are relatively small. Big ones he imagines would get in the way a frightful lot.

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"Did you like women before?"

She tilts her head.

"Or just after?"

"Just after. It's really weird. I used to be kind of scared of girls."

"They're the same, just with moving more across the hips and, well, you know."

Since Jack's assuming she's checked out the details.

"Er... yeah... um... yeaaaah." She fidgets rather a lot. She hadn't really checked in GREAT detail but... well... it was rather self-evident. And it actually does creep her out a little when she thinks about it. Her approach is to therefor not think about it too much.

Jack smiles at her, and it's the same smile as ever.

"Should I call you April, then?"

She nods. "It makes the game more fun that way. Hey. You should be called something other than Jack. That's not really a girly name, y'know?"

"I don't think I have any other names."

She shakes her head.

"I could give you one!"

She actually bounces.

"Please."

A small smile.

"Okay. Um, well, you could be Jane, which is sort of a lot like Jack. Or Janet. Or I could make up something pretty."

"Make up something pretty?"

Leaning in hopefully.

"Okay. Hmm." She leans over the table, peering at Jack through half-lidded eyes. Softly she speaks,

’Life is joy, and love is power,
Death all fetters doth unbind,
Strength and wisdom only flower
When we toil for all our kind.
Hope is truth,—the future giveth
More than present takes away,
And the soul forever liveth
Nearer God from day to day.’
Not a word the maiden uttered,
Fullest hearts are slow to speak,
But a withered rose-leaf fluttered
Down upon the poet’s cheek.

"What about Rose?"

Jack actually doesn't think she can breathe.

"...yes."

She beams a little at Jack.

"You like it?"

"Is that your poem?"

Jack has to know.

"I didn't write it, if that's what you mean. But I love it, so I made it mine. I memorized it. It's in my head."

"Who's it by? It's lovely. Of course I'll be Rose."

"James Russell Lowell. Fairly well-known American poet. Which is to say, a lot of people have heard his name but can't name a single thing he wrote. That's one of his best, I think. It's just called The Rose."

"Well, if I need to not be Jack I'll be Rose."

She nods.

"It's a lovely name."

"It suits you. Winter rose."

"Is there such thing?"

Jack's never heard of them.

"All the time, in poetry. I've never seen one either, but I'm sure there is. Like snowdrops, but prettier."

"I used to know a beautiful creature who called me Snowdrop."

Jack liked her.

"Who was she?"

"She was a nightmare. She was cruel, but never to me."

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cheevy.livejournal.com - 2007-08-07 05:22 (UTC) - Expand

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