It had been a rough day, so when I walked into the party I was very chalant, despite my efforts to appear gruntled and consolate.
I was furling my wieldy umbrella for the coat check when I saw her standing alone in a corner. She was a descript person, a woman in a state of total array. Her hair was kempt, her clothing shevelled, and she moved in a gainly way.
I wanted desperately to meet her, but I knew I’d have to make bones about it since I was travelling cognito. Beknownst to me, the hostess, whom I could see both hide and hair of, was very proper, so it would be skin off my nose if anything bad happened. And even though I had only swerving loyalty to her, my manners couldn’t be peccable. Only toward and heard-of behavior would do.
Fortunately, the embarrassment that my maculate appearance might cause was evitable. There were two ways about it, but the chances that someone as flappable as I would be ept enough to become persona grata or a sung hero were slim. I was, after all, something to sneeze at, someone you could easily hold a candle to, someone who usually aroused bridled passion.
So I decided not to risk it. But then, all at once, for some apparent reason, she looked in my direction and smiled in a way that I could make heads or tails of.
I was plussed. It was concerting to see that she was communicado, and it nerved me that she was interested in a pareil like me, sight seen. Normally, I had a domitable spirit, but, being corrigible, I felt capacitated–as if this were something I was great shakes at–and forgot that I had succeeded in situations like this only a told number of times. So, after a terminable delay, I acted with mitigated gall and made my way through the ruly crowd with strong givings.
Nevertheless, since this was all new hat to me and I had no time to prepare a promptu speech, I was petuous. Wanting to make only called-for remarks, I started talking about the hors d’oeuvres, trying to abuse her of the notion that I was sipid, and perhaps even bunk a few myths about myself.
She responded well, and I was mayed that she considered me a savory character who was up to some good. She told me who she was. “What a perfect nomer,” I said, advertently. The conversation become more and more choate, and we spoke at length to much avail. But I was defatigable, so I had to leave at a godly hour. I asked if she wanted to come with me. To my delight, she was committal. We left the party together and have been together ever since. I have given her my love, and she has requited it.
If you ever think “man, anime hair makes NO sense”; remember Naoko Takeuchi, creator of Sailor Moon, wrote that when Bandai made a doll of her character Chibi-Usa, she stared at it, turning it around repeatedly saying “I can’t believe this can exist in 3D”. Even the authors don’t know what the fuck it’s doing
She’d laughed, then, shrugging it off as easily as a coat on a warm spring day. They didn’t look much alike, not to her. No, Haruka was muted where she was bright, her hair tempered to ash by the shadows of her life, her eyes gone grey with the storms in them, while Mina’s hair and eyes shone bright in the sunlight, and sparkled with the bubbly quality of her own heart, the champagne that never went flat.
It seemed distant, now, the way the colors in an oil painting could be bright and oh so far away, that day on the patio of some small bistro Mina had wanted to hate because Michiru had recommended it, and yet the blooms of the garden surrounding it perfumed the air, and the food was unfussily delicious, and Haruka leaned back in her chair easily as the waiter accused them, teasing Mina that she was so quick to deny her, so quick to make sure everyone knew they didn’t share anything but fries.
I’d let them call you anything they wanted, Ruka, she thought, staring at the gold glinting off the one earring in her left ear.
“Right is the gay ear, bud, are you trying to say–”
“No, right means you like guys!” She’d protested so highly, her nose wrinkling in a way that made her seem young, made her seem like she’d had a childhood, “But left means you like girls! Left is–”
“Left is for lesbian.” She said to no one in particular,and touched the choker at her neck. She shouldn’t have it. She shouldn’t be able to. It should have disappeared with the rest of Haruka’s uniform, when she’d given that last final sigh.
But Mina was leader, wasn’t she? Mina could bend the rules, just a little, and she’d taken it off, and held it in her hand, and though fate and destiny and all those words that were a swear in her mouth could take Haruka, she would hold this.
Her own choker never appeared again, when the warm wind of orange and yellow and love came over her. It was always Haruka’s.
Haruka’s. Not Uranus’. If it were Uranus’, it would have disappeared.
It was important to Mina, to note the difference.
The glass caught the glint of her hair, drifting in the wind, as her army formed behind her, her eyes searching into the reflection. Ash with the shadow of the day. Her eyes grey with the coming storm.
Papercraft commission of Sailor Moon, Princess Serenity, and two Venuses! (…Venusi…?) There was sooo much lovely hair to cut out in this one; I had a great time with it.
Rhio's Tunglr Stuff 