I Find Your Lack of a Social Life Disturbing

July 28, 2005

I like to think of myself as a fairly even-tempered person (when Vader’s not bugging me, that is). But every so often, something sets me off on a particular topic, be it a comment from a co-worker, some dumb stunt my dad or stepdad pull, or maybe just hormones.

Anyhow, today is one of those days. I storm in from work, throw my purse on the table, and release my pent-up frustration.

“I HATE MEN!”

Vader and Brandon look up, startled, from their books – Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince in my brother’s case and Mormon Doctrine in Vader’s case.

“I thought your religion discouraged homosexuality,” Vader remarked.

“Oh, shut up,” I snap. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“Exactly what I said.” I throw today’s mail onto the table. “Men. Why do they have to be so impossible? You’d think getting into their heads would be easy…”

“I see,” Vader says amusedly, picking up the piece of mail that got me fuming in the first place. “A wedding announcement. Friend of yours?”

“I barely know the groom – he was the class clown in my AP English class in high school. Thanks to him, I’ll never look at Hamlet the same way again. I have no idea who the bride is.”

I know, I know, I should be happy for the lovestruck couple. You’ll say I’m just jealous. But hear me out before you jump to conclusions, because the truth is more complicated.

I’ve always had issues with men, starting with my father and stepfather. I watched both of those jerks nearly destroy our family before they finally granted Mom the mercy of divorce. And to make matters worse, my biological father has always played favorites with his kids – and he readily admits that I’ve never been the favorite. As for my stepfather… haven’t heard from him in half a year, and good riddance. With such examples, is it any wonder why I’m a little leery about the whole marriage issue?

Then my religion comes into play. Marriage is so highly valued and emphasized in our church that they’ve organized wards (Mormon term for congregations) made up entirely of 18-30-year-old unmarried adults in the hopes that they’ll eventually pair off. I readily admit to attending a “single’s ward,” and I also admit that it’s a blast being among those my age.

But most people think the entire purpose of the single’s wards is for single adults to hook up. Thus, everyone I run into seems to be on the hunt for his or her “eternal companion” or “Chosen One.” It seems that every Sunday another couple stands in church and announces their engagement… and every week the inevitable wedding announcements pop up in the mail.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’d love to get married someday. But at this point in time, I’m just not ready to walk down the aisle. Right now, all I want are a few dates – seeing a movie with a guy, buying a hamburger and chatting, or even just playing a board game with a bowlful of snacks. Is there anything wrong with that?

But no, every male in my ward seems to have one thought in mind – find the most compatible girl in the ward and get a ring on her finger. Two dates with a guy, and he’s on his knee claiming to have received a sign from God that we’re destined to be together forever. Needless to say, this is a little ridiculous – I mean, we can go on a date just to have fun, without making the night a job interview for the post of spouse, can’t we?

By the time I’ve finished spilling my guts, Vader’s shaking his head in disbelief and Brandon has retreated to the sanctuary of the Playstation.

“Frankly, Kenya, you have a lot of anger to work out of your system.”

Darth Vader, Dark Lord of the Sith, is telling ME I have anger to work out of my system?!

“I just wish that, for once, a guy would ask me out – without ME having to ask for him – and concentrate just on enjoying himself instead of on the whole marriage issue.”

He chuckles and returns to his book. I go to my room to change, muttering all the while. He’s a man; of course he sympathizes with the enemy. Why am I venting to him anyway?

***

By the time Mom gets home from work, I’ve cooled down somewhat. My furious monologue regarding men and marriage is now just a memory. So I’m pretty thrown for a loop when Mom hands me the phone and says it’s for me… and it’s a guy.

“Hello?” I ask unsurely.

“Hi, Kenya. This is Ron*.”

I immediately recognize the voice – Ron’s a Gospel Doctrine teacher at church. I don’t know him very well, other than he just got home from a mission in Italy and that he used to pick on me mercilessly in Sunday School when we were kids.

“I was wondering if you wanted to have dinner with me tonight.”

“Tonight?” I repeat. “Isn’t this a little short notice?”

“Well, to tell the truth, I have reservations at a restaurant and my date bailed on me at the last minute. I don’t wanna cancel, but if you’re not interested, I can call someone else…”

“Mom, he’s asking me out!” I shriek.

“Well, say yes, for heaven’s sake!” she replies. (If you couldn’t tell, me getting asked out is a rare occurrence around here.)

“Uh… sure… I’ll go with you…”

“Good. Be ready in half an hour.”

Half an hour?!

I barely have time to shower, dress, do my hair, and pick out appropriate jewelry before someone knocks on the door. Thank the powers that be that my old prom outfit – a gold number with feathers around the neck and sleeves – still fits! But those same powers fail to stop Brandon from beating me to the door.

“She’s not ready yet, she’s still shaving her legs…” Brandon says with a positively evil grin.

“Am not,” I snarl, pulling him away from the door. “Um… where’s Ron?”

This isn’t Ron – it’s someone I don’t even recognize. Nice snazzy uniform, though.

“I was sent here to pick up a Miss Starflight?” he says in an inquisitive tone.

“That’s me.” I crane my neck to look in the driveway. Good gravy, Ron hired a limo to pick me up! The huge, glossy-black vehicle looks really out of place, parked as it is in front of the barn and goat pens, and the sight of one of my brother’s chickens using the vehicle’s hood ornament as a convenient perch only intensifies the absurdity of the situation.

“Have fun!” Mom tells me. “Call if you’ll be gone past midnight!”

When the limo finally gets itself maneuvered out of our driveway and drives down the road, I turn to see my mom through the living room window doing a victory dance. C’mon, Mom, it hasn’t been that long since I’ve been on a date. Then again, she may not count seeing Episode III with Dylan, seeing as I asked the guy.

I’m thoroughly confused, though, when the limo stops in a park in Boise, next to the river. The chauffer opens the door, and I stick my head out to see, not Ron, but…

“Vader?”

He nods and extends a hand to help me out of the vehicle. “You look lovely tonight, Kenya.”

“But… what about… it was Ron who called…”

“At my behest,” he replied. “He will not remember it, thanks to the Jedi Mind Trick. He does indeed have a date tonight, though the girl did not cancel as he said she had.” He gestured behind him. “I theorized that you would be more likely to show up tonight if someone else placed the call.”

On a cloth-draped picnic table sitting on a lush patch of grass close to the riverbank, a takeout meal from a REALLY nice Italian restaurant sits waiting for us. A CD player sits at the base of a tree, playing a Three Dog Night love song. An Oriental paper lantern hangs from the tree branches to illuminate our dinner table. Even Vader looks classier than usual, having polished his armor until it reflects the city lights from close by.

“Vader, you didn’t have to do this for me.”

“I know. However, I sensed your frustration this afternoon, and took it upon myself to do something to alleviate it. After all, you have put up with a lot from me. This is the least I could do in repayment.”

I just laugh. “You’ve done lots to repay, Darth. You fixed my car, you took me to Dumbledore’s funeral, you came with me to my family reunion so I wouldn’t have to suffer alone…”

He raises his hand to silence me. “No more talk of repayment. You want a night to simply enjoy yourself with a man, a man who has no intention of proposing marriage. This is the chance. Take it.”

I walk over to the CD player and rewind the song, which happens to be one of my favorites. “Let’s start with a dance. You can dance, can’t you?”

He laughs a little. “What do you take me for, a klutz?”

I’m not much of a dancer, actually, but hey, you don’t pass up the opportunity to enjoy an evening with your favorite villain of all time. Not if you have any sense in your head.

“Just an old-fashioned love song,

Comin’ down in three-part harmony.

Just an old-fashioned love song,

One I’m sure they wrote for you and me…”

*Name changed

**Lyrics to “An Old-Fashioned Love Song” belong to Three Dog Night

Dumbledore's Song

July 24, 2005

WARNING: This post is written in response to the ending of J.K. Rowling’s “Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince,” and thus it contains SPOILERS. Read at your own risk if you have not yet read “Half-Blood Prince.” Also, be warned that this post contains very little, if any, humor.

How could they do this to me?

I slam the library’s copy of “Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince” shut, torn between screaming and crying. Blast it all, how could they kill Albus Dumbledore? He was by far the best character in the story. Some might say that his death was necessary to further the series, that Harry needs to learn to fend for himself, to rely on his own brain and move out from under his mentor’s shadow, but I’m in no mood for logical explanations at the moment.

How is it that people get so attached to fictional characters that they go into mourning when they die? A friend of mine actually wore black to work for a week straight when Jango Fett got the slice, and the death of Chewbacca in “Vector Prime” caused a lot of outcry and show of emotion in the geek community. Somehow we come to see these men, women, and creatures as friends, and when they leave us, it affects us as surely as a real-life death. I know that I will deeply miss Dumbledore’s dry humor and quiet wisdom, and Book Seven, when it finally comes out, just won’t be the same.

I also think that those obsessed with Snape (y’all know who you are) are gonna have a hard time explaining THIS away. I never liked him in the first place, and now that he’s gone and killed the man who gave him chance after chance to do good… I hope Harry kicks his greasy behind in the final book is all I can say.

Vader looks up at the sound of the slamming book. “What is it?”

“They killed my favorite character,” I reply.

“I see.” He returns to polishing his boots.

“Hey, that’s the shoe polish we were going to mail to Kevin!” My brother Kevin* is serving a mission in the islands, and since little luxuries like shoe polish and deodorant are expensive there we set aside some items to ship to him.

“I will reimburse you,” he replies. “It was the only polish I could find.”

”What’s with the sprucing up? Got a hot date or something?”

“I am attending a funeral.”

“A funeral? What, did your boss finally kick the bucket or what? He’s about fifty years overdue on that anyhow…”

“The Emperor is alive and well, and I will ignore your tactlessness for the time being. This funeral is in memory of Albus Dumbledore.”

I blink. “What?”

He nods at the book. “Did you not finish reading about his death?”

“Yeah… but… he’s not… well…” I can’t really finish the argument that he’s fictional, because I used to think Darth-boy was fictional as well, and look where he is now.

“Representatives from the Empire will be there to honor his memory. And you are invited as well.”

“I am?” Normally I hate funerals – partly because my dad used to drag me to the services of folks I didn’t even know when I was a kid – but when it’s Albus Dumbledore’s, how can I say no?

“You are. In fact, I have something specific to request of you.”

***

The Empire has always respected Dumbledore, even if they didn’t agree with his light-side stance. That’s the impression I get here as Imperial officers and leaders salute Hagrid as he bears the dead wizard’s body. Vader stands at his master’s side, unmoving, armor gleaming in the sunlight. The Emperor wears a solemn expression, which I guess is as close as he’ll ever come to actually showing sadness. Further away, Boba Fett stands at stiff attention, while General Grievous holds a fist over his chestplate in respectful salute. Stormtroopers, Grand Moffs, Grand Admirals… all present.

But what startles me is two other figures standing a ways away, as if to distance themselves from both the Empire and the wizards. It’s Luke Skywalker, black robes swaying in the slight breeze, and Master Yoda, gazing gravely at Dumbledore’s prone form as if the ancient Jedi and deceased Headmaster were once close friends. I wonder why no other Rebels showed up… but maybe they deemed it unsafe to be in the presence of so many Imperial leaders. Luke and Yoda must have some guts to be here.

“They will not be pursued,” Vader tells me quietly, reading my thoughts. “We will not disrespect the deceased by fighting atop his grave.”

I’m impressed. So the Empire has some morals after all.

Everything goes as the book details – the merpeople’s song, the black-robed wizard’s eulogy, the white tomb’s creation, the centaur’s bow salute. Then the Emperor nods, my cue to step forward.

A few wizards scowl. I guess having a Muggle present rubs them the wrong way. But Dumbledore’s death shook our world as well as theirs, so why can’t we pay our respects as well?

The black-robed wizard motions for me to stand on a white pedestal a few yards to the left of the tomb. I obey nervously. I’ve never performed before such a big crowd before. I’m wearing a black velvet dress and black hooded cloak for the occasion, and a silver dragon-shaped pendant hangs at my throat. It’s as wizard-like or Sithly as I can get, and it seems at least a few people appreciate the attempt.

Piano music is conjured somewhere, and I sing. It was the song performed at my graduation, but I think, were Dumbledore alive, he’d find it appropriate.

“Time to say goodbye, my friend
It’s time for something new
All good things must someday end
It’s sad to say, but true
We knew that there would come a time
A moment like today
When all that we can do
Is turn and walk away

Go and take a part
Of all we’ve shared together
Know within your heart
You have a friend forever
Always reach for a star
Find how special you are
And promise me, my friend
Always remember

Thank you, friend, for being there
To help me make it through
Taking time to show you care
When I have needed you
I want to tell you how I feel
But words are hard to find
I only hope you know
What’s really in my mind

Go and take a part
Of all we’ve shared together
Know within your heart
You have a friend forever
Always reach for a star
Find how special you are
And promise me, my friend
Always remember
Remember, remember
We have so much to remember…"

Light applause from the crowd is my reply, and I wipe a few tears before stepping down.

Goodbye, Albus. You will be missed in many worlds.

*Name changed

**Song lyrics of “Goodbye, My Friend” are not mine

Midnight Duel

July 15, 2005

I’ve never before had a desire to read fanfics that deal with resurrecting a formerly-dead character, be it via actual reincarnation, time travel, cloning, or some other bizarre means. The one foray I have had with such back-to-life issues – the EU young-adult novel series “Jedi Academy” – was just… odd, and is probably what killed my desire to read such stories. I mean, come on, how many times can you clone the Emperor before he seems less of a villain and more of a sick farce of himself?

Maybe it’s time I started reading some of those stories. If “Revenge of the Sith” is to be believed, General Grievous died a grisly death at Obi-wan’s hands. But tonight…

I wake up about 2 A.M. to someone hacking his lungs out in my bedroom. It’s not Vader, and it’s definitely not Brandon or Mom. I suppose I should be terrified, but at the moment I’m just too doggone groggy to give a hoot. If it turns out to be a robber, joke’s on him – if there’s anything worth stealing in my room, he’ll have a rough time finding it in the clutter.

Whoever it is coughs again, this time right next to my bed. I blink a few times to clear the fog from my eyes and squint. I can’t see squat, but I can tell someone’s fooling around with my nightstand… and making weird metallic noises as he moves.

In retrospect, one would say that the best thing to do would be to hold still, let the burglar finish his business, then call the cops once he jets. But seeing as it’s two in the friggin’ morning and I’m not thinking straight anyway, I act purely out of reflex and turn on the bedside light.

Okay, now I’m REALLY awake. Kind of. At least more awake than before.

General Grievous’ cloaked droid-body is hunched over my nightstand, poking and prodding at the various items stashed there. His white head, which looks like a cross between an early concept-drawing Vader mask and a horse’s skull, turns to glower at me with reptilian yellow eyes. The lamplight reflects off of skeletal steel limbs and lightsaber trophies dangling from his waist. His clawed hands clutch – of all things – a Darth Vader cookie jar.

It’s the last thing that really irks me. I collected a lot of Kellogs UPCs and paid seven bucks to get that through the mail – and it’s a really nice one too, not some cheesy cheapo thing. It finally arrived just a few weeks ago, and I’m not about to see some psycho droid-general damage it.

Besides, I filled it with chocolates. The good kind. Even a droid ought to know that you don’t get between a woman and her daily dose of legal addictive antidepressant.

“Get outta my room,” I tell him. Okay, I try to tell him, but seeing as I haven’t fully awakened yet it comes out kind of garbled.

“What a primitive world,” Grievous snarls disdainfully. “They don’t even speak Basic yet.”

“I said get outta my room!” I repeat more clearly, sitting up. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“Hold your tongue,” he grates, setting the cookie jar down. “I wish to finish this without awakening anyone else.”

“Finish what?” I’m normally not this clueless, but this early in the morning the train of thought is still boarding at the station.

“The duel, of course.”

“What duel…” I catch on. “You two aren’t fighting in the house, are you?”

The door opens again, and Vader’s silhouetted in the doorway. Behind him I can see what’s left of the family room. Ugh. No chance of going back to sleep now.

“Hiding in the bedrooms is prohibited, Grievous,” he informs the droid-general.

“Give me a break,” Grievous grumbles. “I needed a time-out.”

“Wait a minute. You two are FRIENDS?”

Grievous belts out a laugh, then coughs noisily. “Let us just say, Kenya, that the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

“Ever since Kenobi died, he’s kept in touch,” Vader adds. “And he’s a wicked duelist. I need to keep at the top of my game somehow, and having a decent sparring partner helps.”

“But… didn’t he die in…”

Grievous cuts me off. “Let’s finish this exercise up, Vader. I have places to be tomorrow.”

“Very well.”

“You’d better not be trashing the house!” I shout, getting out of bed. As long as I’m not getting any rest, I might as well enjoy myself by watching the duel.

***

Mom gives me a strange look as she’s getting ready for work. “And how late were you up last night?” She looks well rested, not having been kept up half the night by a savage duel outside her bedroom door. Brandon didn’t wake up during the fight either… but then, he could sleep through a train wreck.

I just groan. I’m sure I look a sight, between the bed-head and the fact that I can barely keep my head out of my cereal bowl.

“You need to get to bed at a decent hour,” she chides. “This staying up late online’s getting a little ridiculous.”

“I know.”

“By the way, I’d like you to pick up the family room before you leave,” she tells me. “Looks like the cat went a little wild last night.”

“Okay.”

Vader, who’s appropriated the morning paper, waits for her to leave before addressing me over the editorial section. “You and I both know it wasn’t the cat.”

“Whatever, pal, you’re helping me clean up. It’s your fault anyhow. Next time one of your little buddies stops by for a practice duel, do it outside.”

He chuckles a little behind the paper.

“Besides, I thought he died. Isn’t it hard to have a duel with a dead guy?”

“Perhaps he found a way to renew himself. It’s a strange galaxy.”

“Got that right.” I stir my now-soggy corn flakes around. Maybe I need to make up my own theory on how General Grievous came back. I need new fanfic ideas anyhow.

Great Balls of Fire!

July 5, 2005

I will say one thing about living in Nowhereville, Idaho – it’s only a short drive away from Podunk, Idaho. Podunk doesn't even attempt to pretend it's a big city, which is why I like it. Small town now and forever, it has one grocery store, five churches, and a great backdrop of rolling foothills and buttes. Everyone here knows everyone, or if they don't, they should. It must be a town ordinance – the minute you move in, you give up your privacy rights. Not that it’s entirely a bad thing – in fact, the few times I’ve been there I’ve enjoyed the cozy sense of community the residents share.

And they have a killer Independence Day celebration.

Darth is not keen on going. In fact, when Brandon jumps on the couch to wake him up and gleefully announces "Let's go to the parade!" he Force-throws him to the floor and goes right back to sleep.

"Weee! Do it again!" Brandon cheers.

"Okay, Darth, rule number one," I tell him as I assemble water bottles, lawn chairs, and a bag so Brandon can collect candy (I give him a gallon Ziplock though he insists he needs a garbage sack). “You don’t push my brother around. I don’t care if you’re a Sith – if you so much as bruise him…”

I can’t think of an appropriate threat to conclude that sentence, but it makes no difference since Vader’s snoring again.

An hour later, Mom gets out of the shower, everything’s gathered, and we’re set to go. I go back to the couch to wake up Vader.

“Coming to the Fourth of July bash?”

“No.”

“C’mon, you won’t be expected to get wet, hold a baby, or do anything else humiliating.”

“No.”

“Don’t be a spoilsport, Darth. I’ve put up with you for over a month now. The least you can do is see how our country celebrates one of its most important holidays.”

“I give up,” he grunts, pushing himself off the couch. “If you are going to nag me all day…”

“I wasn’t nagging, Darth.”

“Yes you were,” Brandon chimes in.

“You stay out of this.”

Podunk has swollen to about three times the normal population by the time we get there, park at the American Legion building, and take our customary spot at a street corner near the LDS church. Everyone and their dog seems to be here – literally. I see so many daschunds, Chihuahuas, terriers, shepherds, Huskies, and mongrels here that I wonder if we didn’t take a wrong turn and end up at the Westminster Dog Show.

This town might not be much, but when it does Fourth of July, it DOES Fourth of July. In addition to the obligatory parade and fireworks, there’s all sorts of craft, food, and kitsch vendors, an antique tractor pull, a car show, live music, a fried chicken dinner at the senior center, pony rides, a kid’s mini-fair, and a 3K Fun Run. But show up early – you can pretty much forget about finding a parking spot within city limits if you don’t arrive by about 9 AM.

After the parade – classic cars, the local Corvette Club, floats put together by local businesses and church groups, kids riding their decorated bikes and ATVs, emergency and military vehicles festooned with balloons and red-white-and-blue crepe paper, horseback riders, the local rodeo queen, and enough candy tossed into the crowd to ensure everyone under the age of twelve remains on a permanent sugar high today – we browse through the craft vendors. Almost anything you can think of – be it homemade beef jerky, a handcarved Indian flute, a boot rack made of horseshoes, a cheapo inflatable alien for the kids, or that “I’m Not Smiling, I’m Passing Gas” T-shirt you’ve always wanted – is showcased here. And whether or not you actually plan on spending any cash, you can’t avoid leaving without dragging out more stuff than you brought in.

We promptly lose my brother at a stand showcasing stones and crystals (he’s as obsessed with rocks as I am with Star Wars), while my mom enjoys being a grandma as she stocks up on baby clothes for my niece. Vader has no Earth cash to spend but has the time of his life admiring the classic Thunderbirds, Corvettes, and Bel Airs at the car show. I, meanwhile, let my geek flag fly by going to a T-shirt booth and purchasing a shirt that declares, for all the world to see, “HAN SHOT FIRST.”

I personally think Vader enjoyed himself in Podunk, but the minute we get home he announces he’s staying home for the rest of the day.

“You’re not coming to the hot dog roast with us?” Brandon asks. A few of my mom’s cousins, who live about ten miles from us, invite us over every year for an Independence Day dinner.

“I refuse.”

“Darth, you enjoyed the parade; you’ll enjoy yourself here, too,” I tell him. “And don’t give me that ‘you’re more machine than man so you don’t eat’ crap either. I know good and well who stole the last Fat Boy sandwich.”

“That wasn’t me; that was Fett.”

“Baloney. I saw the ice cream on your mask.”

“Okay, so we split it. Make your point.”

“My point is something’s up here, and you’re not telling us. Why don’t you want to come with us? Do you have a problem with attending an event that celebrates liberty and freedom?”

“Why should I begrudge your country that?”

“So if it’s not that, what is it?”

He stares out the window a moment. He’s not wanting to tell me. But I can tell it’s serious. I feel my guts clench. Did he and the Emperor plot something without my knowing? Is he planning on rigging something in the house while we’re gone?

“What happens after the hot dog roast?” he asks me at last.

“We go to Podunk for fireworks…” Realization hits. “I see. You have pyrophobia.”

Even through the mask I can see him flinch. “Blunt as always, Kenya.”

I understand now. And believe it or not, I sympathize. After all, getting set on fire and left to burn to death can’t be pleasant. And attending a function that deals primarily with huge amounts of fire flying around probably isn’t the best thing for someone who has pyrophobia. But this is a special tradition for our family, and seeing as Darth’s practically a member of the family now, I want to share this with him.

“Tell you what,” I suggest. “Come with us. And if it gets to be too much for you, I’m sure the Jacksons* will let you stay in their house. They let us sit on their lawn every year, but they let people in the house to use the bathroom or calm down kids that got too freaked out. Deal?”

He nods slowly. “Very well.”

***

Someone I know once told me that the Podunk fireworks rival Disneyland’s. I’ve never been to the Magic Kingdom to compare, but all I can say is this display – half an hour of magnificent flame blossoms, comets, screamers, fireballs, and pinwheels – tops anything I’ve ever come across.

The downside to it? Getting out of town. Cars line the road into town for miles as people camp out in their cars for the fireworks, and when upwards of five thousand people all want out of a town at once, they certainly don’t get out in a hurry. It takes us fifteen minutes to move a hundred yards in what normally is a 55 mph zone. Add to that the late hour (okay, eleven-thirty isn’t that late, but it’s late for me) and the fact that most of these people are stuck in cramped cars with sweaty, adrenaline-filled bodies that have been outdoors all day touching heaven-knows-what, and it’s a bunch of cranky motorists that are clogging the only road out of Podunk.

“Those were better than last year’s,” Brandon says sleepily in the back seat.

“I notice you didn’t go in the house at all, Darth,” I say quietly, trying not to attract my mom’s attention. Luckily, she’s busy focusing on the road and isn’t listening.

He’s silent.

“Um, Darth?”

“I never knew fire could be so beautiful,” he marvels. “There was nothing like that in our galaxy, even back on Corusant. It was incredible.”

I smile. It seems that someone’s overcome some of their pyrophobia… and is beginning to like this dirtball of ours a little more than he likes to let on.

*Name changed