Blackthorn

by J.T. Geissinger

“Hello, Maven.” When I don’t say anything quickly enough, he demands, “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” He’s so good at deception. He actually sounds worried. Which of course he would, knowing how it would affect me. I swallow, breathe in and out, and feel the hard, painful beat of my heart. “If I ask you a question, will you be honest with me?” He hesitates. “I might. I might not. It depends on what you ask.” “Okay. That’s honest at least. Thank you.” “Before you ask me whatever it is, are you in trouble?” I think about how to answer that. “I suppose it depends on your definition of trouble.” “Have you been arrested?” “No.” “Have you been injured?” “No.” “Are you being held at gunpoint by a band of naked circus clowns demanding you hand over your sensible shoes and hideous clothing?” “No. Stop trying to make me laugh.” “I’m sorry. No, that was a lie. I’m not sorry. I love your laugh. It sounds like sunlight.” We’re both quiet for a moment, until I say, “What the hell was that?” He chuckles. “I have no idea. It just came to me.” “It was super weird.” “Says the super weird girl.”