“Can I come with you wherever you’re going?”
“I’m just checking my mail.” Because it is Monday. The Mondaytwo weeks afterthe Sunday where Austin should have sold all my shiny mine things.
Am I bad at this mail thing?Yes. I need a post-it note on my door or something. Assuming I won’t forget to read the post-it note every day in about a week. And I will.
Stupid mail. Stupid brain.
Samson’s hand slips from around my waist to clasp mine. Threading our fingers, he reaches for the doorknob himself. “Are you expecting mail from someone?”
“Noo,” I mumble. I’vebeenexpecting mail from someone, and then I simplyforgotabout that fact.
“So,yes?”
To be quite certain, I worked hard around Samson’s and my mine exploring days in order to write letters of apology to everyone for things I missed because of my third chronic condition (apart from my astigmatism and my oversharing) which is: Incapable of Checking My Mail-itis. Those first few days when I did remember to check, kind letters from the townies came in, expressing how they are more than used to having a recluse in town.
Perhaps the mild unnerve of having messed up every letter script sent me into ahaha, nope, this doesn’t exist anymoremental space. My generic vegetable requests and recipe cards were the last word-for-word game familiarity I had to hold on to. Now, the formal language is gone, replaced withIf you see this in a few seasonsandShould I just stop by to make these requests?Guess I’ll know in a year!
I’m glad everyone thinks my shortcomings are funny.
But it’s harrowing to be thread into the narrative like this.
I’m notthe playeranymore. Now—here—I amme.
And I feel that every time I catch Citrus’s reflection in Verity’s Edge.
I am Citrus.
From now until forever, this is who I am.
As Samson and I walk over to my farm, I stare at our swinging arms. It’s an animation that was never in the game, and I wonder if I’ll ever get used to the knowledge that I don’t justlivein this reality now. I also shape it. My actions define the code that surrounds me.
Harrowingmight not be a strong enough word.
“Crops are looking good,” Samson says as my lush field comes into view. There is a boulder that must have turned up overnight in the middle of it, but he ignores that. “Looks like you have a lot to harvest today.”
A lotis an understatement. I wonder if Kaolin will let me work out a deal with her so I don’t have to go to Mimet for the surplus, either. There is, after all, no way Gem Ridge needs a thousand cucumbers. Not even if I figure out how a pickle station with the reality mod works. “I’m glad farming is more fun in real life than it was in the game. Weeding is annoying, though. Did not have weeding in the game at all, really. Just invasive grass.”
“Invasive grass,” Samson echoes.
“Don’t make fun of me.”
“I would never.” He lets my hand go so I can open my mailbox.
Letters galore.
And a pouch.
An entire,heavypouch.
Samson’s brows rise when coins sing against one another as I lift it, making dull music.
The letter nearest it appears to be from Austin.
Citrus,
I let Pyro take a look before selling the rest to Mimet. He bought the ruby for a gold and five silvers. If that’s not enough, he asks that you let him know.
Anyway.
