Short Stories (bxb)

The Art of Feeling Small Pt. 4: Hansa Yellow

"Honestly, I don't think it's all it's made out to be," I said around a mouthful of cookies 'n cream, scrunching my nose in protest when Ezra snorted at my thick voice and butchered consonants.

     "No?" he mused. "I feel like it would be nice to know so many people; you've always got someone to distract you."

     His shoulder bumped against mine as he raised his own chocolate milkshake to his mouth. Even Appa had gotten a sweet treat; the girl working at the counter of the ice cream shop had just about fallen over herself to get him a pup cup, and he still had white clumps around his nose to show for it. It was definitely too cold a day for the food choice, but Ezra stood by his "urgent craving," even as he shivered every time the wind blew.

    I chewed on my straw, thoughtful. "It was— it is. But I think I'd rather be close with a few people than acquaintances with so many. It's exhausting, you know? Having to put on a different version of yourself depending on who you're with."

     Ezra's shoulder rubbed mine again as we walked. When he dropped his arm after a contemplative sip, cold fingers brushed against my elbow. If there was anything I'd learned about Ezra in the time I'd known him (and there were many, many things), it was that he was touchy. Always making contact in some way. A hand on an elbow walking side-by-side, ankles crossed under a table, a head on a shoulder sitting against a wall, knees bumping over the grass. It had been jarring at first — I'd never had that sort of relationship with my friends — but it had only taken a bit of time and the repeated reminder that he experienced the world through touch to get used to it. Ezra liked it, and I didn't mind, so I found myself walking close, returning playful flicks and meaningful squeezes.

     "Why put on a mask, then? Isn't one version of you enough?"

     He was so honestly confused, all pursed lips and creased brows, and for the hundredth time, I envied him. So unapologetically himself that he couldn't even comprehend why I wouldn't be. I rolled my eyes, fond and jealous and disbelieving all at once, and I could only think, aren't you something to admire?

     "Different people have different expectations," I said after a poke in the bicep from Ezra, a sign that I had been quiet for too long.

     "Who says it's your job to meet them?"

     "Who—" I blinked, a little stupid, because it was a simple question, really, and I was hopeless to answer it. "Is that a rhetorical question?"

     Ezra let a wispy little laugh slip under his breath. "You're cute. What version am I getting, then?"

     "Ah, see, you're a special case."

     "Oh?"

      "I already hit rock bottom with the first impression, so I don't have to worry about how I act around you."

     "Give yourself some credit, the first impression was pretty good. Second one was where you tanked." The wind disrupted his hair as he walked, throwing it into his face and his mouth so that he was constantly pushing it aside and spitting it out. It seemed pretty pointless to have your hair half-up only to intentionally pull some strands loose in the front, but I wasn't about to talk style to someone who couldn't see and still dressed better than I did.

     "Let's talk about that redemption arc."

     Ezra drifted off on that laugh of his, the gentle tide that swept me up and whisked me away without my feet ever leaving the ground. "I'm glad," he said.