“What do you think, Brevin? Pretty good disguise, eh?”
“Haaatt!” the colorful fowl cawed. “Haaaaaaatttt!”
I miss you so much. I am sorry about the trick back at the fairy forest. Hope to see you soon.
Yours in love,
“Misty?” she says aloud, staring at the signature line.
“Top of the day to you,” called Septimius Felton, sneaking up behind her. “See you’re using one of those fancy future machines again. Typing to your boyfriend, huh?” He laughed agreeably. “But just a friendly reminder…”
“I know, I know,” said, um — Misty (?), shutting down the window. “No future machines. No future anything.”
“Who’s the president?” Septimius tested.
“Garfield.” Pause. “Wait… Grant.”
“I know you’re funning me, Mrs. Dorn.”
Mrs.?, thought Misty(?). I’m *married*? She hadn’t turned around yet. She didn’t want him to see her scars.
“You know the presidents better than I,” he continued. “We almost didn’t make it through R.B. Hayes, though. Almost became a *socialist* country, without a true ruler. But we all got through it. But of course you’re too young to remember all that hoopla.”
“I read all about it in sex ed history class, though,” she proclaimed proudly, reverting to old, classic style bluster.
Septimius walked into the gazebo beside her. Oh it’s *you*, she thought, looking over the familiar, top hat topped gentleman, dapper in a period suit. Does he remember? Does he know? He eyed the fall leaf sugar cookies eagerly. She decides to gesture toward the opposite chair. What would it hurt?
“Don’t mind if I do,” he said matter-of-factly, scooting out the cast iron chair before sitting down, then noisily scooching it back to the table on the wood planked flooring. A sugar cookie was in his hand in no time.
Closed, thought a relieved Misty, staring at the subsequently masticating mouth. He’s at least evolved past Tin Tin, thankfully. He was really quite handsome, she thought. Despite being just a, um, prop.
He cleared his throat, and indicated the laptop with a nod of the head. “About time to put that away, don’t you think. Talk person to person, like it should be. 1920, Mrs. Dorn. And Woodrow Wilsonia is the first female president. Who would have thunk it?”
Who would have indeed, thought Misty.