The falling snow had obscured familiar markers, and my evening constitutional had extended somewhat beyond my intended parameters.
Granny May would have known where to find me.
Granny May always knew.
I feel a familiar hollow ache in my chest.
Loneliness.
Dr. Hersey would remind me that emotional responses are natural, even for camelids with superior intelligence. Still, I find it beneath my dignity to miss a human quite this much. It’s been seventeen days since Granny was taken to the hospital. Seventeen days of Everett trying his best, but forgetting that I prefer my hay slightly dampened and my scarf collection properly rotated.
“My boss is going to ruin this trip for me somehow. I just know it,” Melody continues, unaware of my internal struggles. “Marcus always finds a way to reach me, even when I specifically request time off. He’ll find some emergency that only I can fix, like he can’t remember his email password for the fortieth time.”
Interesting.
Workplace-induced anxiety coupled with the inability to establish boundaries with authority figures. I mentally add codependency to my diagnostic assessment.
Her sweet vanilla scent shifts—a touch of clove emerging—a stress response indicator. Her autonomic nervous system is betraying her despite the alcohol’s dampening effect.
“I should quit. I should just walk in after the holidays and say, ‘I quit, Marcus. Find someone else to be your emotional punching bag!’”
She punches the air with surprising vigor, loses her balance, and grabs my neck fur to steady herself.
I snort my displeasure.
Physical boundaries, please.
“Sorry,” she mumbles, releasing me. “I just… I hate my job. But my aunt pulled strings to get me in, and my parents are so proud, and everyone keeps telling me how lucky I am… especially for an omega.”
Classic family-of-origin pressure creating false self-constructs. If I were still practicing, I’d prescribe assertiveness training and possibly a support group.
The forest is silent around us, and the pine trees are heavy with fresh powder. Despite my companion’s emotional volatility, it’s peaceful and even therapeutic.
“Look at the stars!” she suddenly exclaims, her mood shifting with the instability typical of the inebriated.
She stops walking and tilts her head back, nearly overbalancing again. I maintain my position, providing a stable presence. The stars are indeed particularly vivid tonight, pinpricks of cold light in the black sky.
“Twinkle, twinkle, little star,” Melody begins singing, her voice surprisingly pleasant when not shouting.
But the moment of tranquility doesn’t last.
“How I wonder WHAT YOU ARE!” she belts the final words with alarming volume, disturbing the night’s tranquility.
And then, to my great dismay, she begins to move her body in what I can only assume is meant to be dancing. Her hips sway in erratic patterns. Her arms flail with no discernible rhythm. She twirls, sending snow flying from her boots.
This is not dancing.
This is a physical manifestation of emotional chaos.
“UP above the WORLD so high!” She attempts what appears to be a ballet move, rising onto her tiptoes before promptly losing balance.
I sidestep her gracefully as she flails. Years of avoiding Dr. Hersey’s more unstable patients has given me excellent reflexes.
“Like a diamond in the SKY!”
She attempts something truly horrific with her posterior—a rapid shaking motion that resembles a seizure more than a dance move. Dr. Hersey once showed me videos of various human courtship rituals. This appears to be a particularly unsuccessful version of one, perhaps.
I avert my eyes.