“A grip of what?” The effort of injecting such sarcastic sweetness tugged me further into the present.
Van stayed silent, spritzing the last flaming bits of paper and wood. He never did reply when I used sarcasm. It was beneath him.
Heaven help my witchy heart, the synapses in my brain weren’t functioning properly. Otherwise, I would surely have spouted something dreadfully witty, lines worthy of a Noel Coward play at the very least. Some people call the numbness dissociation. Whatever you call it, I could vacillate from panic, to numb, and back to panic again until the world recovered from global warming.
It sounds like more fun than it is.
Van then aimed the extinguisher at the photographic remnants of our shared past, which still supported a few rebellious flames. The foam sprayed out in a loud rush. He kept his attention on the fire, but I heard him all the same. “Tia. Get drenched.”
Even shaking my head, the cobwebs wouldn’t clear.