are you frightened by perfection;

[wingborne]

In the morning, Liechtenstein picks up the mail and England. The mail isn’t interesting: a letter from her brother, a month-late magazine, two bills, one catalog, and a coupon book that has a good deal for bread at her local grocery store. England is slightly more interesting, because he’s small and unexpected. Unexpected, at least, in this form at this time.

“England?” She tucks her letters underneath her arms, and bends down to his height. It must be England, because his eyebrows stand out like black scars across his face. She reaches out to touch him, and he recoils like a shy goat. His fierce eyes are his horns, and his shaggy blond hair is his fleece. But she repeats the question, and receives no answer.

A magic spell must have rebounded off a mirror, she thinks. Now he’s small and resembles a quivering rabbit, except twice as dirty and thrice as disgruntled. Her knees begin to ache from kneeling, and the hem of her pretty blue dress is brushing against the dirt, so she stands up slowly. She turns to place her letters on the porch, but when she turns to look back on her garden, the little rabbit England has approached her warily. He keeps at a safe distance, half-hidden behind her red roses.

Testing the invisible rope, she steps into her house. He creeps forward a step. She continues to step inside, letters still tucked into her hands. He follows, crawling up the porch steps with his small fists struggling to grasp the solid wood boards.

“England?” she calls again, but he only approaches the breakfast table. She had laid out fresh eggs and bread, a simple but hearty meal. The little rabbit England reached one dirty hand for her bread. When he takes it, he buries it beneath his cape and nibbles on it defensively.

“You should wash up.”

Hands still tight over his won-over prize, he imperceptibly glances at her face.

“Come here, England.” She pats the counter near the faucet, and to her surprise, he actually moves towards her. He stands a little distance away, still eating his bread and dropping crumbs all over her kitchen. The little trail weaves its way underneath the table, but she’s confident in her broom.

She reaches to lift him up to the counter, but he draws back hastily. His brow suddenly knits together, accusingly staring up at her. She holds up her hands in a sign of innocence, and then reaches for an empty bowl on the counter. Earlier in the morning, she had brought out her nice bowls with red flowers emblazoned on the sides, since she had made an important dinner plan.

The faucet hummed as the water splashed into the bowl. With damp hands, she lifted the nice bowl to the floor, where she made the motions of washing her hands before stepping back. It felt childish, a follow-you follow-me, but England crept forward with his fingers that were small and thin, and washed the dirt off his fingers. He performed the task badly, but the water quickly became filled with grime.

“Are you hungry?” She opened her refrigerator, which was full of ingredients for her dinner date. But her eyes flickered to the pantry, and she took a cookie instead.

England is still busy washing his hands when she turns around, oatmeal cookie in hand. She kneels down again, smoothing the wrinkles of her dress over her knees. Slowly, she extends her arm to hold out the cookie. When it catches his attention, he jerks away again, wet hands and all. He’s finished the bread, but the movement shakes the crumbs onto the floor.

“It’s a cookie,” she said. “It’s good.”

But England shakes his head, hard enough for his hair to become even shaggier.

“England.”

He grips his cape within his hands, knuckles dirty and scarred.

“England. I won’t hurt you.”

She speaks firmly and calmly, and he reacts nervously. His eyes dart to the windows of the room, but he creeps closer, nevertheless. He starts slowly, then quicker, until he snatches away the cookie and buries the food within his cape to slowly nibble on. But he doesn’t back away, not even when she gently pets his nestled hair.

While he’s still eating, she stands up and reaches for her phone. She punches in the familiar numbers, and waits for the phone line to stir.

“Hello, this is Liechtenstein.” She smiles a little. “Yes, it’s me. Are you still coming over tonight?”

At the flurry of comments, she gently presses her hand against the receiver until the sound becomes muted.

“No, I still want you to come. Are you nervous?” Another flurry, but she confidently cuts off the ramblings. “Yes, you seem a little nervous. But it’s only me.”

She listens, for a little while longer. Finally, she laughs into the phone. “Yes. I’ll expect you at eight. I'll see you then, England.”

She hangs up the phone, and turns around to see a bowl of water and a trail of bread crumbs, and only herself remaining in the kitchen. With a brief intake of breath, she moves forward to clean up the mess and prepare for her date.