A memory flashes in her mind, eyes widening and glittering with remembrance.
"This is the drink Credence asked about!" The connection and utter irony of it all makes a burst of laughter rush forth through her lips, which she quickly covers with the back of the wrist attached to the hand still clutching the bottle. She shakes her head. "He asked me if I'd been named after the drink, but I hadn't an idea of what he was talking about. It's rather good, I think." She holds the bottle up, swirls it around in front of her face. "I'm not sure watch scotch is, though," she adds on, flicking her eyes over to his other hand.
The press of his lips to her knuckles almost demands a quiet sob from her gut, but she manages to stifle it down. Such a simple gesture, one she'd seen her Papa do a thousand times with her Mama's hand, and sometimes even with her own - so small and tiny in his, so strong and commanding - but the mere act of it sucks the breath out of her lungs. She manages to command her feet to move, follow him across the street, but her mind's focused on the lingering warmth against the mountains at the back of her hand.
Whatever this is, whatever it turns out to be - she'll remember this, and there'll be no bitterness, no sadness, no wishing for it to have been different.
no subject
"This is the drink Credence asked about!" The connection and utter irony of it all makes a burst of laughter rush forth through her lips, which she quickly covers with the back of the wrist attached to the hand still clutching the bottle. She shakes her head. "He asked me if I'd been named after the drink, but I hadn't an idea of what he was talking about. It's rather good, I think." She holds the bottle up, swirls it around in front of her face. "I'm not sure watch scotch is, though," she adds on, flicking her eyes over to his other hand.
The press of his lips to her knuckles almost demands a quiet sob from her gut, but she manages to stifle it down. Such a simple gesture, one she'd seen her Papa do a thousand times with her Mama's hand, and sometimes even with her own - so small and tiny in his, so strong and commanding - but the mere act of it sucks the breath out of her lungs. She manages to command her feet to move, follow him across the street, but her mind's focused on the lingering warmth against the mountains at the back of her hand.
Whatever this is, whatever it turns out to be - she'll remember this, and there'll be no bitterness, no sadness, no wishing for it to have been different.