I’m still working on getting the feel of bony structures into my drawing hand. Progress is slow, but steady.
Also, I’m processing all manner of leftover emotional falderal, so drawing bones is highly soothing.
There is a tub of s’mores ice cream lurking around in my freezer. I’m pondering this fact.
And here is what happens next for Diana:
By the Van
Stuart remained beside the driver’s side door, his hands pulled into fists and his eyes directed at the ground. Diana, on the other side of the van, studied him through the windows and waited to see if he would come over to her. He made no motion whatsoever and Diana went to him.
“Hey, babe,” Diana said.
“Don’t call me that. I know you don’t mean it,” Stuart said, sounding once more quite as irritated as he ever had before. Diana peered at him with the manner of an ornithologist looking through a thick bramble of thorns at a rare and endangered bird, but the thorns and bristles were Stuart’s behaviors, which she could see quite plainly now were rooted in fear.
“Huh. Tell me you love your dad, sweetie,” Diana said, going to the side so that she could see Stuart’s face and his alien tattoo simultaneously.
“I don’t love him. Ow! That hurts!” Stuart exclaimed, his alien mark flooding into a brilliant shade of red.
“Say it, babe,” Diana said.
“I love my dad,” Stuart muttered. The marks turned peaceful and blue again.
“I thought so. He doesn’t hit you, does he?” Diana asked.
“Nah,” Stuart said.
“I didn’t think he would, since you come after me so much. You don’t hit like a guy who knows what it feels like,” Diana explained, taking Stuart’s hand and pulling him towards the sidewalk and the house. Stuart made it two steps before he stopped and leaned back against Diana’s weight.
“I don’t want to, Di,” Stuart said.
“Well, we’re going in there. I’ll kiss your cheek once we’re in the living room,” Diana offered. Stuart scrunched his lips over to the side as he thought about this.
“I want a kiss on the mouth,” he hedged.
“I can’t do that, Stu. You’re like a patient in surgery for emotions, and you can’t start making out with your patient or else somebody dies, usually the guy who’s bleeding all over the operating table. I can’t kiss you right now,” Diana said.
“Oh. You’re, like, fixing me?” Stuart asked, his expression brightening, for it had occurred to him that if she was repairing him, she might someday be interested in enjoying him.
“Yeah,” Diana said, for to her this had been obviously what was going on from day one.
“Well, okay. I’ll come, then. And I get to have a kiss on the cheek, huh?” Stuart asked, taking the lead and pulling a laughing Diana towards the sidewalk.
“If you make it all the way to the center of the living room, yes, I will kiss your cheek,” Diana said.
“I like your kisses, Di. Hey! That was—I’m being kind of friendly right now, don’t you think?” Stuart asked, looking back at her with hope in his eyes.
“You are, yeah,” she agreed, grinning. Stuart heaved a deep breath that sounded as if all the world had been contained in it and practically ran for the front door.
You’re reading Victor Poole, and I’m torn between the desire to purchase takeout and vanity (because I’ve been working on my body composition). Also, in my current novel, the cyborg director is being a total ass (and is about to be metaphorically whupped by our handsome hero).