Milkshakes
The “photographs” and one “video” that Atlanta took of my attempts on the ice are… blush-worthy, I have to admit, as I browse through them at the end of our time on the “ice rink.” I am forbidden to erase them from the phone, sadly, but her bribe for not doing so is too tempting to ignore, especially since hunger is hounding me again in earnest.
Ironically, she uses “milkshake” as the bribe, which turns out to be the drink that I did not manage to barter for with my seiðr-sculpted trinket at the beach. And its taste is as exoticas its smell: savoury, sweet, fruity – and, above all, cold with tiny ice chunks in it.
Still, despite the unexpected achievement of my earlier goal, my thoughts are not on the drink that I am nursing.
No, they are wholely focused on the photographs and video that continuously parade before my mind’s eye.
Seeing myself as a rather small child with my own eyes is jarring, to say the least. Seeing myself without Thor nearby is even more so.
And I cannot help but wonder if I was ever that… happy – Unrestrainedly joyful, like in those images – during my childhood.