Blackthorn

by J.T. Geissinger

“Good morning, fair Maven. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” “There’s no need to talk like you’re in a Shakespeare play.” “If that were the case, I would’ve said ‘good morrow.’ Isn’t it a little early to be scowling so hard?” “My retinas are trying to recover from the glare generated by this giant disco ball you live in.” I reach the front porch, stop, and gaze up at him. He’s standing one step above me and so is taller than usual. He seems to enjoy it, however, gauging by how much easier it is for him to stare condescendingly down his nose at me. He says, “Is that a smile?” “No, this is just what my face does when I smell something stinky.” “Oh good. For a second there, I thought hell had frozen over.” It’s a contest to see how long we can keep our faces straight. He wins when I start laughing. Grinning, he says, “What’s that awful noise you’re making? You sound like a herniated donkey.” “At least I don’t look like one. And stop flashing those expensive veneers at me. I’m blind enough as it is.” He makes spokesmodel hands at himself. “These teeth are natural, as is everything else about me.” “Except your ego, which was grown in a lab. Are you going to invite me in or what?” He morphs from teasing to solemn in a snap. “Oh, that’s right. Dracula needs an invitation to enter someone’s home. Please, Princess of Darkness, come in.”