update from sparkleup

writing/post-self/motes/009.html

@@ -71,7 +71,7 @@
 <p>Ioan grilled <em>frigărui,</em> kebabs loaded up with Carpathian seasonings, and <em>mititei,</em> a quick sausage.</p>
 <p>Warmth made an array of its best guesses at Artemisian food, some of which were quite tasty.</p>
 <p>Few who tried the fluffy tower of <em>frahabrodåt</em> went back for seconds, at which ey seemed quite proud.</p>
-<p>Motes ate it all. She ate herself overfull. She ate herself messy, leaving her shirt dotted with mustard and grease, her lips shinig with the oily sheen of at least three different types of sausage.</p>
+<p>Motes ate it all. She ate herself overfull. She ate herself messy, leaving her shirt dotted with mustard and grease, her lips shining with the oily sheen of at least three different types of sausage.</p>
 <p>Thus sated, she darted around the gathering, the thirty or so people who had showed up from both within the clade and without. She hugged everyone who wanted a hug, chased Warmth in multiples, the two little skunks leapfrogging each other and leaving their fur and clothes stained green with with grass. She drank a few margaritas, allowing through only a modicum of the drunkenness so that she remained cognizant and present through the tipsiness, awake and alert through the haze.</p>
 <p>And then, as she had several times over the last week, she latched herself onto Dry Grass. As they had over the last week, they revelled in the closeness and affection, the joy in allowing themselves to be around each other despite meaningless admonitions. As they had, they spoke mostly of small things, of interesting things they had seen or nice foods that they had eaten or simple stories made up on the spot. </p>
 <p>It was important to her that she be around this person she considered a member of her family. One of the close ones, not one of the distant ones, not one that had cut her off. It was important that they spend quality time together, that by that time she live her gratefulness for Dry Grass&rsquo;s presence.</p>
@@ -88,7 +88,7 @@
 <p>&ldquo;And she would always be the wrong one,&rdquo; Motes interrupted. &ldquo;Frick her. She is the one holding grudges, we are the ones doing what we want. She is the one hurting people, we are the ones just playing and having fun and not hurting anyone.&rdquo;</p>
 <p>There was another moment of silence, of Dry Grass furrowing her brow and thinking, and then at last she lay back on the beanbag and tugged Motes back up to lay on her front. &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; she murmured as the skunk got comfortable. &ldquo;Yes, I guess both of those are true.&rdquo;</p>
 <p>They stayed like that for the rest of the film, Dry Grass petting Motes and Motes telling Dry Grass stories about the day, little nothings that showed that fun, that lack of pain.</p>
-<p>And then, when the movie was over and many of those in the community center had started to doze on their beanbags and couches, when Dry Grass fell asleep one too many times and begged off to go back home — not without yet another tight hug from Motes and a promise to be back — when Motes herself started to get sleepy, she disentangled herself from the rest of that dozy comfort and slipped out into the cool of the night.</p>
+<p>And then, when the movie was over and many of those in the community center had started to doze on their beanbags and couches, when Dry Grass fell asleep one too many times and begged off to go back home — not without yet another tight hug from Motes and a promise to be back soon — when Motes herself started to get sleepy, she disentangled herself from the rest of that dozy comfort and slipped out into the cool of the night.</p>
 <p>Rather than turning left off toward home, she turned right to the other arm of the &lsquo;U&rsquo; that made up the neighborhood and started wandering through the grass until she hit the sidewalk. There, vines in chalk blossomed lazily behind her footsteps, and in the night, in the light of the stars and the moon and the streetlamps, they seemed to glow in pale oranges and whites and blues. She played with them by taking wobbling, drunken steps, crossing one leg in front of the other, pirouetting clumsily to make them tie themselves into knots.</p>
 <p>Even so, she continued down around the slow curve of the neighborhood&rsquo;s main street, not bothering to venture into any of the cul-de-sacs. The chalk lines were fun, a little trail describing where the little skunk had wandered, but she <em>was</em> tired. It had been a long first day back as Little Motes, and she had successfully packed it to the brim with all that she had wanted to do, and that success gave to her a sense of rightness.</p>
 <p>It was a rightness of form — of species, of size, of appearance.</p>