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I'm fine, but I'm not okay
Meg and Dean talk about music, for about five minutes.
Maybe seven.
No more than that.
And Meg does most of the talking, though Dean seems to ease up a little, and once or twice there was something that might have been a faint attempt at a smile, though mostly he just looks tired.
They stay on their respective sides of the doorway.
Still, it's a slightly easier conversation than they've managed yet.
All forward motion counts, right?
Meg goes back to trying to hang her curtains, standing on the desk chair and fighting with the rod. It's one of the many things that would be easier if she were even three centimetres taller.
And, sure, she could probably get them put up for her, somehow, but then she just has to fill the time with something else.
Besides, she thinks she can reach . . .
Maybe seven.
No more than that.
And Meg does most of the talking, though Dean seems to ease up a little, and once or twice there was something that might have been a faint attempt at a smile, though mostly he just looks tired.
They stay on their respective sides of the doorway.
Still, it's a slightly easier conversation than they've managed yet.
All forward motion counts, right?
Meg goes back to trying to hang her curtains, standing on the desk chair and fighting with the rod. It's one of the many things that would be easier if she were even three centimetres taller.
And, sure, she could probably get them put up for her, somehow, but then she just has to fill the time with something else.
Besides, she thinks she can reach . . .