I thought you would be taller. I’ve never quite understood why a height difference would be so appealing, but I suppose since I’m not short, like you, I wouldn’t really come across it. The way he described you, I’d have imagined your eyes to be “kind,” or something like that. I’m not even sure what that means. If it’s resembling the way some cartoon animals’ eyes are drawn beady and shiny, then, yes, I suppose you have kind eyes. Your hair could be quite beautiful. It’s always amazed me that there are women well into their forties with naturally straight and blonde hair. If there are grays, I couldn’t tell in that hasty ponytail you always wear. I could imagine that haircare must be quite extensive due to your frigid environment. I probably wouldn’t bother either. It is quite lucky for you that it’s so cold there. Here, we don’t have the luxury of layers. But I do understand why he loves you so much. Don’t get me wrong, if I had someone like you, I would feel bound to such safety. It’s amazing how supportive you’ve been of his career, and I’ve heard your a good cook, you even moved away from your family for him! You’re quite the woman. He’s so lucky to have you. I hope you two are very happy together.

There are always children with wild eyes to run toward my shell, as if I am an amusement park ride, and there are always former children to sweep them up with admonishments that I am too fragile to bear their weight. Perhaps I couldn’t, but we’ll never know if the crushing weight of a gleeful child would actually be the thing that gets this old dotard. I’ve seen their faces come and go and come again, century after century. Occasionally I hear them dawdle on about the world outside, and see their clothes and gadgets morph, yet, there has always been lettuce and there have always been berries. And now that I have seen a fifth George come and go, and watch the seventh crawl toward with conviction, I remain, everlasting, George the Tortoise.

She woke up with humming in her ears and face pressed to a cold stone floor. She blinked her eyes through white blond hair and matted blood and elevated her gaze to walls ornately etched with the lesser deities. Confusion dispersed as she remembered their last push through heavy doors, gasping for sanctuary. Fifteen feet away, a man slowly was becoming conscious, rising with one hand cradling his neck, and a small sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry escaped her. He turned quickly, and they locked eyes, his widening ever so briefly before they narrowed on her and he accused more than asked, “What have you done.”