Miss Gloria, was I beautiful? Was I beautiful, in your d-d-dream?
The seamstress led her mountainous compatriot with care by lantern-light. When they reached the hollowed husk of his woodcutting shack, she finally drew her fingers away from his elbow and wiped them -- once, twice, three times -- across the fabric of her stained skirt. To be so near to him drove pain into her jaw through a cavern in one of her teeth. Little did she know what was still tucked in there, the nebula of a black-oil droplet of blood clinging to the enamels of her sour teeth.
A piece of Catch.
When they neared the door of his shack, her breath became quick, desperate, and she stepped aside to raise high the lantern. Her gray eyes were tired, but they meant to pierce him like arrows.
He had kissed her. He had kissed her weeks ago, and even now her lips trembled like he might do it again. And though she feared being alone with the addled man, she crushed her tensions behind Jerno iron and let the fading lantern hang between them. In the night, woodcutter and seamstress were nothing more than that, but greater than those simple things all at once. Dreamers, both, and strangers, too.
"Why did -- did you ask me about my dream, Mister Catch?"