Mira studied Iris’s face until Iris looked away.
“Are you mad at something?” Mira asked.
“What should I be mad at?”
“It just sounded—”
“I’ve got nothing to be mad at. Come on, I’ll get you some soup and bread to eat.”
“Alright. How’s Lewis doing?”
“Just fine. Secluded as always, but the town’s getting to know him better. He comes to the poetry readings every month, now. He has quite the skill for memorizing poems.”
Iris was hiding a question. She wanted to ask Mira but she didn’t know how to go about it. She kept playing with her words. Mira fell silent. She knew what Iris wanted to ask.
“I thought about it for some time, and I came to a conclusion,” Mira said quickly. “It doesn’t matter how she left. What matters is that it was quick. She left the scar and that’s it.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Yes, well, you would have.” Mira did not hold any remorse or bitterness in her tone, but there was a dangerous outline of apathy.
“No need. It happens.”
They walked out to the house with Iris leading the way by a few feet.
“Are you staying?”
Mira did not answer. She rubbed her nose gently. Iris took the sign and understood.
They stepped into the house and entered the kitchen. Iris went straight to the cabinets and unearthed pots and spoons and a ladle, and she went to the fridge and brought out the soup in a large tupperware bowl. She dumped its contents into the pot and turned the fire on. After a few clicks, it whispered alive and sputtered blue flames.
Writing month, day twenty-nine, word count: 28,001
(Two more days!)