Now Luna is sitting cross-legged, unashamed and white, her long blond hair falling like waves over the curve of her spine. She let it grow after the war - it touches the small of her back, riding her vertebrae like a light-soaked sea. She's playing a pebble.
"It's the season of hurricanes in America, you know," she says.
Ginny didn't know. "Do you wish we had hurricanes here?" she asks.
Luna considers it for a few seconds, her head tilted to the side. "Maybe," she says eventually. "Maybe then we wouldn't miss the war so much."
"It isn't the same thing," Ginny says. The war always forces words out of her when it doesn't make her mute.
"No," Luna agrees, and she looks at Ginny, her eyes shining and endless. "Nothing is the same as the war."
There's a beat of silence that clicks like a metronome in Ginny's mind.
"I'm going to cut my hair," Luna says, soft and intent.
"Oh?" Ginny asks, a little weakly.
"Yes," Luna answers, and then: "It'll be like the end of a love story."
She looks at Luna, and reaches a hand to circle Ginny's wrist with her fingers, nails grazing against her pulse. Maybe it's her idea of an apology, Ginny thinks.
She sneaks a glance at Luna under her lashes and wonders what she would look like with short hair.
+
They part before the sky gets too yellow, because Luna only likes yellow on dresses and lemons. ("Dawn isn't my favorite season," she said to Ginny once, quietly and like a confidence, just before she slid her fingers into Ginny and made her moan.)
"Goodbye," Ginny says. She's never been one for tears.
Luna kisses her, distractedly. It leaves a sharp tang of newborn nostalgia on Ginny's lips; she wants to wipe it from her mouth with her sleeve, but she doesn't. It can wait.
"Did you know," Luna says, "that the French have two words for goodbye? One if they're going to see each other again, and one if it's for ever."
Ginny wants to say everybody knows that. "Yes," she says instead.
Luna hums, low and calm. "Well then," she says, and stuffs her dirty, nail-bitten hands in her dress pockets, "au revoir."
She smiles. Her eyes are another blue still, ocean with sprinkles of gold. She shrugs. "Or maybe adieu," she adds.
Ginny watches her walk up the path that leads to her house until the pale night swallows her. Then she picks up her bag, hooks the strap on her shoulder and leaves without a second glance for the red, blooming flowers.
no subject
"It's the season of hurricanes in America, you know," she says.
Ginny didn't know. "Do you wish we had hurricanes here?" she asks.
Luna considers it for a few seconds, her head tilted to the side. "Maybe," she says eventually. "Maybe then we wouldn't miss the war so much."
"It isn't the same thing," Ginny says. The war always forces words out of her when it doesn't make her mute.
"No," Luna agrees, and she looks at Ginny, her eyes shining and endless. "Nothing is the same as the war."
There's a beat of silence that clicks like a metronome in Ginny's mind.
"I'm going to cut my hair," Luna says, soft and intent.
"Oh?" Ginny asks, a little weakly.
"Yes," Luna answers, and then: "It'll be like the end of a love story."
She looks at Luna, and reaches a hand to circle Ginny's wrist with her fingers, nails grazing against her pulse. Maybe it's her idea of an apology, Ginny thinks.
She sneaks a glance at Luna under her lashes and wonders what she would look like with short hair.
+
They part before the sky gets too yellow, because Luna only likes yellow on dresses and lemons. ("Dawn isn't my favorite season," she said to Ginny once, quietly and like a confidence, just before she slid her fingers into Ginny and made her moan.)
"Goodbye," Ginny says. She's never been one for tears.
Luna kisses her, distractedly. It leaves a sharp tang of newborn nostalgia on Ginny's lips; she wants to wipe it from her mouth with her sleeve, but she doesn't. It can wait.
"Did you know," Luna says, "that the French have two words for goodbye? One if they're going to see each other again, and one if it's for ever."
Ginny wants to say everybody knows that. "Yes," she says instead.
Luna hums, low and calm. "Well then," she says, and stuffs her dirty, nail-bitten hands in her dress pockets, "au revoir."
She smiles. Her eyes are another blue still, ocean with sprinkles of gold. She shrugs. "Or maybe adieu," she adds.
Ginny watches her walk up the path that leads to her house until the pale night swallows her. Then she picks up her bag, hooks the strap on her shoulder and leaves without a second glance for the red, blooming flowers.