Serrie watched as her brother laid out his own towel and returned her greeting, with a small smile. She was happy to see Owen. In truth, it often felt like seeing him again for the first time, like a miracle. She still expected him to not really be there, no matter how long it had been. It made her feel a little jolt each time she saw him. Partially in feeling odd that she had thought him gone and now he wasn’t and partially because, well, it almost felt like cheating death. Too bad that couldn’t been done so often but she would be happy with the one time she had gotten it. Most didn’t.
It helped that they were both a little broken. She wondered, if she had seen him before she had felt a little broken, if she might have reacted differently to his return. But that wasn’t here or there, was it? She wasn’t grateful for being broken but she could appreciate that it gave them something of a bonding point that so was he. In his own way. Though his worried her sometimes, with the memory bit.
But that probably came from being a story teller and not knowing what she would do if she had to have that happen to her, probably. She almost smiled at the thought but instead shook it off.
How was she? She stretched out her legs before bending them at the knees again, propping her arms on to and then her cheek on top of her arms so she could look over at her big brother. How was she. She hummed softly and thought about the question. She could give the polite answer. She wasn’t sure if that was the one her big brother wanted. She had been bad at social niceties even before this though, she simply was… eccentric. So she spoke the truth, why not? ”I don’t think I’m much of anything, today, but that’s better than being sad,” she said, with an honest shrug.
”But how are you?” she wanted to know that too. The honest answer, not the polite one. It was easier to worry about another person rather than have yourself worried over and it was nice and distracting to do, really. She bit her lip for a moment before relieasing it. She could easily go into tales an stories and fables about people that worried so about others but no, that was a nervous habit and she was going to sit on it!
Any writing. That was an easier question. Serrie ha dalways wanted to write but now she was wondering if she would always be better at the spoken word, ironic now, than the written one. But she tried. ”More reading and planning my writing than actually getting the words down, I confess” she said, trying to push herself to speak a bit more, and not give one word answers. She hated the accent she had so carefully acquired with an entertained air for years, it brought too much attention, but it was just the pair of them so there shouldn’t be any harm of it!
”What have you been up to?” see? Indeed. It was a talking day, she supposed. Or at least, a talking start. She was trying to speak and trying to be personable and trying to be herself. She was sure she didn’t make it easier for him to remember anything with her in it with her not being herself, and that made her want to push a bit more and that was at least a little bit healthy, wasn’t it?