Gemotions

The crayon smelled like old dust and freedom. Little Lily, all of five years old, was sprawled across the living room rug, her tongue peeking out as she concentrated. Sarah, twenty-seven and perpetually single, watched from the doorway, a mug of lukewarm coffee clutched in her hand. Sarah had been just like Lily, once. Except, of course, *her* friend, Bartholomew, had been a majestic, six-winged griffin who could, and often did, protect her from the monsters under the bed. Now, Lily’s drawing showed a lopsided stick figure with a single, enormous eye, a detail that was immediately familiar. Sarah’s chest constricted.

"What's that, sweetie?" Sarah asked, her voice a little too high-pitched.

Lily, eyes still glued to the paper, mumbled, "My best friend."

The coffee tasted suddenly bitter. Sarah felt a peculiar tightness in her shoulders. She wanted to snatch the drawing, crumple it, erase the familiar single eye. Instead, she took a long, slow sip, the silence amplifying the rhythmic scratching of the crayon.