I cleared my throat, pulling back some of the confidence she and that blasted dress had stolen from me, giving her my full, undivided attention. "So, Judy," I began, setting the menu down and leaning across the table. "How's the bullet wound healing up?" I ask, flashing a smile. "Should I apologize again?" I tease lightly, relieved to see a small smile beam back at me.
"No, I think you've expressed how sorry you are." She chuckles, paw straying and flitting over where she'd let the bullet bore into her. "It doesn't hurt, anymore. But just try convincing Nick of that!" Her voice, while exasperated, is full of fondness, full of memories. She blinks, setting down her menu. "My turn to ask a question. Did you always want to run your own business?"
I laugh quietly to myself, rubbing the back of my neck in embarrassment. "No, actually. When I was a kit, I always wanted to be a secret agent. Silly, I know." It was hard to give up on that dream, and long after most kits put down their silly childhood wishes, I was still holding on. I think I was sixteen before I finally faced facts and let the inevitable take over. I'm doing alright, though. I can't complain about the life I'm leading.
She tilts her head, ears swaying. "It's not silly at all. Why didn't you?" She's deadly serious, I realize. Not even laughing. But then I remember that this is the bunny who defied all the odds, all of society's rules and declarations, defied her parents, just to become what she wanted, to help mammals in her own way. I probably wouldn't be alive to even think this if she hadn't.
She's braver than I am. But maybe I already knew that, or should have, at least. I've known for years that I'm a coward, but blamed it on genetics. Here she is to prove me wrong.
"I'll explain that another time, maybe." I defer, not really wanting to get into a discussion of absentee fathers, drunkard mothers, and bruises that were all too easy to hide. Of sisters huddling under their beds, of the way it's too easy to bite your lip and learn not to scream.
She nods as the waiter comes up and takes our orders, leaving us each a glass of wine 'on ze house, monsieur, on ze house!' "Your turn. To ask a question."
