For Dorrito’s Every Flavour Mood Beans.

*****

Content

It was always about want, his whole life, really— for attention, space, distinction, recognition, something special that belonged just to him. It settled in his abdomen, desperate and aching, embedding itself in the tissue around it. By fifth year, he’d nurtured it so long, he recognized it only as himself.

It happened, of course, in the tiniest moment: a Tuesday evening, cold and quiet, Hermione curled so small, absorbed in a book, stocking feet unconsciously tucked under his; Harry sprawled on the floor below, eyes bright with laughter over an hour-old joke.

He wondered that loss could feel so warm.

For Dorrito’s Every Flavour Mood Beans.

*****

Confused

Some days she is Alice and he is Frank. Some days she can pull and pull and finally see for one small moment. She remembers fragments, names of things. Blanket. Pot. Shoe. Flower. They present themselves fiercely, as if they’d always been there, as if she was herself again.

Others are hidden, deep behind the haze—an older woman, sharp and frowning, the round-faced boy with the soft smile and sad eyes. She gives him a present to please him, but the eyes won’t change.

Blanket. Pot. Shoe. Flower. Frank. Frank. Frank. She recites these over, to keep from sinking.