Page 25 of Last Man Standing

I hit send and grin.

Me:

She didn’t even bitch me out when I served it. She ate two pieces of toast, all except the crusts. She made a cup of coffee, and then she made a shaker cup with water and protein powder.

Seems she’s aware of the meal-skipping-during-crisis thing, cos she’s stocking up with the powder.

She sat in her room for an hour after breakfast. Pretty sure she was drawing.

Showered around 10:30.

Blow-dried her hair, which took about 45 minutes.

Seems a waste, considering the snow settling on her head right now.

Lincoln:

Okay. I got it. You’ve been watching.

Me:

Went back to her room for a bit.

I heard something go bang, and then she swore. Now she’s limping a little, so I reckon she destroyed her toe. Not my fault.

Lincoln:

Enough now. We’re done.

Me:

Grabbed an apple from the bowl at 12.

Spent fifteen minutes pawing through her pencil case at the counter so she could find her favorite pens and shit.

Slipped them into her back pocket around 12:20.

Tucked a sketchbook under her hoodie around 12:24.

I don’t think she wanted me to see it.

Does she realize she can talk to a doctor about her anxiety? Probably cheaper than all the pens she buys.

It’s weird.

Lincoln:

Enough already. Fuck!

I told you to watch her. To keep her alive. I didn’t say shit about micromanaging every tiny thing she does.

Being up her ass this much is gonna make her anxiety worse, dickhead. Just leave her alone.

Eh.

I trade my phone for the binos and bring the viewer into focus. But where I expected to find a woman engrossed in her art, I lock instead on a pair of fierce blue eyes and plump lips flattened into straight lines. She stares straight back at me. Burning. Beautiful. And so fucking done with everything, she makes me lower my hand again so I can simply look at her with my regular eyes.

She’s a fuckin’ princess, alright. But the Disney kind, set out in the snowy mountains with her long, fragrant hair fluttering in the breeze.