"Curiouser and curiouser," Alice says as she walks around the puppet-boy, tilting her head and crouching down as though to admire him from every angle. Pinocchio looks back at her with equal amazement.
"Are you... real?" he asks.
"Why, of course I'm real! And glad of it too; the rest of this world is utter nonsense!" Alice gestures broadly to the forest around them, with its strange creatures and huge trees and mushrooms that make her grow small and tall with every bite. And she isn't surprised - rather, she is quite pleased - that Wonderland has revealed the most interesting curiousity of the day so far, in this little puppet-boy.
Pinocchio doesn't know what to say to this, so he just offers her his hand. "I'm Pinocchio," he says. Alice watches with fascination as his painted mouth, which should not have been able to move at all, stretches into a smile.
"Alice," she returns cordially, finally remembering not to stare.
They shake hands and hold on for far longer than is polite as each runs their fingers over the others'. Alice admires the smooth wood of Pinocchio's palm, and the slight wooden tapping sounds his jointed fingers make as they click against each other. He enviously caresses the soft, pink skin, admires all the little natural creases in her palm and knuckles, the blunt and slightly uneven fingernails. All the little imperfect details of a real girl.
"Are you?"
"Am I what?" Pinocchio's round eyes stare up at her.
"Real, of course!"
He hangs his head. "I want to be. I was looking for a way to become a real boy. I don't want to just be a puppet."
"Why, why ever not?" Alice gasps. "I imagine it must be terribly interesting to be a puppet. And I suppose you don't have to take lessons, or spend all of your time reading books with no pictures."
"Well, no," Pinocchio replies. "But..." He feels shy, suddenly, in the face of this peculiar little girl and her strange, affected manner of speaking, and she makes being real sound quite boring, actually. Before he can think much more on the matter, Alice is walking around him in a circle once more.
"What is it like?" she asks. "Being a puppet, I mean." She takes a very sudden step forward and is far too close, but forgets her manners again for a moment when she peers curiously into Pinocchio's face. "May I?" she asks, and reaches out to touch his cheek, those soft, thin fingers running over the painted hair poking out from beneath his hat.
"Could I...?" Pinocchio asks in return. He slowly reaches a hand towards her hair, twirling strands around his fingers, and marvels at how real people have so many different textures. Skin and fingernails and soft golden hair that smells flowery somehow... He leans in, breathing deeply, inhaling as much of Alice as he can. He's leaning so close that his own scent attacks Alice's nostrils, an altogether pleasant combination of wood and polish.
"Are you... real?" he asks.
"Why, of course I'm real! And glad of it too; the rest of this world is utter nonsense!" Alice gestures broadly to the forest around them, with its strange creatures and huge trees and mushrooms that make her grow small and tall with every bite. And she isn't surprised - rather, she is quite pleased - that Wonderland has revealed the most interesting curiousity of the day so far, in this little puppet-boy.
Pinocchio doesn't know what to say to this, so he just offers her his hand. "I'm Pinocchio," he says. Alice watches with fascination as his painted mouth, which should not have been able to move at all, stretches into a smile.
"Alice," she returns cordially, finally remembering not to stare.
They shake hands and hold on for far longer than is polite as each runs their fingers over the others'. Alice admires the smooth wood of Pinocchio's palm, and the slight wooden tapping sounds his jointed fingers make as they click against each other. He enviously caresses the soft, pink skin, admires all the little natural creases in her palm and knuckles, the blunt and slightly uneven fingernails. All the little imperfect details of a real girl.
"Are you?"
"Am I what?" Pinocchio's round eyes stare up at her.
"Real, of course!"
He hangs his head. "I want to be. I was looking for a way to become a real boy. I don't want to just be a puppet."
"Why, why ever not?" Alice gasps. "I imagine it must be terribly interesting to be a puppet. And I suppose you don't have to take lessons, or spend all of your time reading books with no pictures."
"Well, no," Pinocchio replies. "But..." He feels shy, suddenly, in the face of this peculiar little girl and her strange, affected manner of speaking, and she makes being real sound quite boring, actually. Before he can think much more on the matter, Alice is walking around him in a circle once more.
"What is it like?" she asks. "Being a puppet, I mean." She takes a very sudden step forward and is far too close, but forgets her manners again for a moment when she peers curiously into Pinocchio's face. "May I?" she asks, and reaches out to touch his cheek, those soft, thin fingers running over the painted hair poking out from beneath his hat.
"Could I...?" Pinocchio asks in return. He slowly reaches a hand towards her hair, twirling strands around his fingers, and marvels at how real people have so many different textures. Skin and fingernails and soft golden hair that smells flowery somehow... He leans in, breathing deeply, inhaling as much of Alice as he can. He's leaning so close that his own scent attacks Alice's nostrils, an altogether pleasant combination of wood and polish.
Reply
Leave a comment