Eighteen

c a t h e r i n e

In my attempt to understand his sudden impassivity, my gaze lingered on the resurrection of Vernon's ice-cold facąde. He seemed a master of putting on and off the mask of joy and apathy, I noticed that too well. It seemed to me as though such emotions are nothing but accessories which he'd purposely display on chosen occasions.

Right now, his air of playfulness has vanished and so is the tricky grins and the sardonic humor. He stood across me still, his expression fixed firmly for the coldness he was trying to mask.

The late sun rays from the Victorian windows shadowed Vernon's face in bastard amber. Amid how serene it was supposed to look, he feigned his austerity. His hard expression, a reflection of the customary warmth gone faster than the dying sun in the late afternoon.

I could have forced him to be honest but I remained mute opposite to him.

How is he like this? One moment, he’s all jokes and flirting, but in situations like this where I am purposely try