Something’s wrong when Cynthia walks in the cinema doors.
I joke all the time about her being a deer in headlights. This time, she actually looks the part, visibly shaking and unsteady on her feet as she stumbles in.
“Cynthia?”
She looks up at me, hazel eyes swimming.
As I approach her, I catch a whiff of an unusual smell.
Cynthia usually smells like old cotton, lavender soap, and a faint hint of lilac. There’s also my smell on her. I’ve hugged and held her enough that it’s stuck, however faintly.
But there’s something new there. Something like…fog, maybe.
It’s faint, but the fact it’s there and it’s unusual…
I take a hold of her arm.
“C’mon, twig legs, you need to sit.”
She doesn’t tell me to shut up or punch me playfully. In fact, I don’t think my comment even registers to her.
