(Because of a variety of circumstances, Lisa and I are taking a Figs break. But! For those who just started reading the blog, I'm going to reach deep into the wayback machine and toss up some old Figs for your enjoyment.)
He told her she looked like a pirate.
It’s just the eye patch, she said. Anyone wearing an eyepatch looks like a pirate.
No, he said. It’s not that. It’s also not the parrot colored hair or the limp. I didn’t even notice those when I first saw you in that dark bar, silhouetted by the moonlight. I saw the eyepatch later, when I was lighting your cigarillo.
It’s just you, he said. The way you stand as if you’re compensating for a rocky sea. How your good eye looks to the horizon, scouting for incoming marauders. And, of course, your cutlass.
You hate pirates, she said, accusingly. It’s not me, it’s you, right?
No, he said. I love pirates, especially this one.
Text ©Adrienne Martini; illustration ©Lisa Horstman. Until the end of time. Or something.