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"What are you going to call them?"
He tossed crumbled pieces of bread into the pond. Soaked, drenched, and disappearing behind the eager beaks of the three or so ducks paddling near the shore. His scales seemed lackluster in the shade, dull and almost vacant of any shine. His gaze was much the same--distant, anchored only by their conversation.
Yet the question sparked something in him. A smile spread along his face. Familiar. Each tug, either corner of the lips finding their usual placement. Warm.
"I haven't thought up names for them yet. I'm going to start feeding them, though. Everyday. They deserve a place to visit often."
He peeked back at her, and she knew. This was home to him. He wanted this to be their home, too.
A nerve bit at her and briefly turned her stomach to knots. Was it enough? And yet to be granted this glimpse of him, so true to his element, she could only swallow her fear.
"That sounds wonderful."
"What are you going to name it?"
A single duck left in their pond, lollygagging in a lackadaisical swim.
What would she call it now? What had he called it?
"...I do not know. I have not thought about it. They had names before."
It was rude to look away from your company as they spoke directly at you. And yet that one, lonesome duck seemed all the more interesting. The ripples of water left in its wake. The shake of its tailfeathers, diving down and coming up again.
Where had the others gone? Did they leave because he left?
With a shaky sense of certainty, she half-smiled and answered, "I will think of one."
