Clucking chickens. Fucking clucking, goddamn chickens.
There’s more to the cup of coffee than D initially gave on. She asked for decaf, but there’s a spicy undercurrent to the hot drink. S wasn’t sure if it was ginger powder or some motherfucking cayenne or whatever spice Matilda had hidden into their afternoon basket that night, but whatever, as she sips. Still tastes good.
Winter’s slowly creeping into their town. Fog greets them in the wee hours, but does not deter Dexter — he still runs off in search of small woodland creatures to play tag with. She wonders, as she blows steam out of her coffee, if they should have him groomed. His long fur’s matted with dirt after every morning run, and God knows she and D hate cleaning after him.
There are still gaps in her memory. She knows they’re there – portions of her thoughts hazy and scattered, and she feels with every fiber of her being she’s skipping from one unrelated memory to another, which for some reason makes sense, no matter how illogical that appears. This should bother her, but she’s done being troubled by it. After all, they’ve done right so far. Beacon welcomes them like a frazzled parent, one that hasn’t seen their hide for years, and, tired from all the battles, they seek solace in her loving arms. The town’s quiet, the neighbors caring, if a little bit nosy, and they’ve got everything they need here. S, for the first time in years, is content.
She’s plucked from her thoughts by the incessant clucking of hens in Matilda’s backyard. Well, she sips her coffee, not everything’s perfect.