( the next letter comes with another hand delivery — parisa perched on his lap, waving the perfumed parchment under his nose. except every time emmrich makes moves to grab it, parisa pitches it out of his reach, stretching until he offers something else in return, payment for the letter boy. maybe a little extra, enough that when he does eventually find the letter, it's tangled up in the sheets, wrinkled from misuse. )
نیمه دیگر من
Picking up another language, are we? You're certainly ambitious. French is considered the language of lovers, actually. It does seem up your alley.
Musical prowess is overrated, anyway. Songs don't butter your bread. And I like your sense of humor, for the record. It would seem I find even the worst things about you exceedingly tolerable, if not wonderful. Don't you think so?
Speaking of jokes. It's funny, I think the only thing waiting for me at home is a suitably tragic and unavoidable death. Sacrifice, as the Society would call it. I don't know if I could say that to your face, as I know talk of my death upsets you. The point is, there's nothing much awaiting me in Paris, or all the rest of the world. I've spent my life trying to outrun it. I'm hunted. Eventually I'll get old and lose the fight.
You say "visit" like you aren't the destination, Emmrich. How many different ways can I spell it out? It's you.
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