"You are late," the king said. His face turned toward them. The words landed heavy, even the air itself seemed to bow.
He had a straight nose, and pursed lips. Looki up close one of his eye was black while the other was red. Those two eyes of his judged then with dissapointment like a teacher who expected more from them.
"Felix," Linda cried out. Her voice pitched high, breaking. She didn't want to believe it, but she had to. Not when he looked at her like a stranger. Her chest tore open. Hope and grief collided.
"Oh, Linda," Felix's eyes shifted to Linda. There was no emotion in them. "You are late," he repeated the words, but the meaning changed. One only Linda and he could decipher. A private wound, spoken for the whole world to hear.
"You always are," he replied. His head rested on his hand, laziness draped over him like a cloak. Under the laziness, resentment burned. Heavy forcing itself to erupt anytime.
