Theatrical Muse #322 Chinese Zodiac
Any minute now, she would stop laughing.
"No, really. You can stop laughing any time now."
"And yet," she wheezed. "It's absolutely hysterical..."
He rolled his eyes. To his way of thinking, the descriptions were so vague and subjective as to be meaningless. So, he was a Sheep. (A Ram, the listing said, but she insisted on calling him a sheep.) So what? That didn't mean he needed to take on the attributes listed, not in the way they were conventionally interpreted. He rarely interpreted anything in the way convention of the time or place dictated, and she knew that.
"S'il vous plait, dessin-moi un..."
He stabbed the air with a finger in her direction. "Don't. Start."
She snorted. "You make a good sheep, you know. Give good, workable wool, stand still for the shearing. A productive sheep, for the amount of material that you create, that I can then work into something else. Anything that I might wish, really." And one off-handed gesture at her loom, still with the warp visibly tied under the beam, indicated what she meant. Not that he needed even the gesture. She knew he knew what she meant even if his threads weren't visible there.
"Hrmph." All right, it was something. It was one interpretation. "That doesn't mean I like being called a sheep."
She shrugged. Made a gesture of acquiescence and turned back to her spinning wheel, swearing at it as she tried to make the damn thing all go in the same direction.
"Baa..."
"Oh, shut up."
"No, really. You can stop laughing any time now."
"And yet," she wheezed. "It's absolutely hysterical..."
He rolled his eyes. To his way of thinking, the descriptions were so vague and subjective as to be meaningless. So, he was a Sheep. (A Ram, the listing said, but she insisted on calling him a sheep.) So what? That didn't mean he needed to take on the attributes listed, not in the way they were conventionally interpreted. He rarely interpreted anything in the way convention of the time or place dictated, and she knew that.
"S'il vous plait, dessin-moi un..."
He stabbed the air with a finger in her direction. "Don't. Start."
She snorted. "You make a good sheep, you know. Give good, workable wool, stand still for the shearing. A productive sheep, for the amount of material that you create, that I can then work into something else. Anything that I might wish, really." And one off-handed gesture at her loom, still with the warp visibly tied under the beam, indicated what she meant. Not that he needed even the gesture. She knew he knew what she meant even if his threads weren't visible there.
"Hrmph." All right, it was something. It was one interpretation. "That doesn't mean I like being called a sheep."
She shrugged. Made a gesture of acquiescence and turned back to her spinning wheel, swearing at it as she tried to make the damn thing all go in the same direction.
"Baa..."
"Oh, shut up."