Ficly

Thomas

I notice him first: the shock of red hair, nice shoes and a spring in his step.

He has this light in his eyes that instantly draws me toward him, the moth that I am.

Unfortunately, he immediately notices my cheesy smile and his eyes zero in on mine. An equally corny smile lights up his face. Unease causes me to edge away.

He ignores my obvious trepidation, throwing glances in my direction and leaving that infuriating smirk on his face.

No one else in the room notices this exchange. The people milling about stomp with the fiddler, or burst into peals of laughter at the jokes floating about. Outside, the weather rapidly fluctuates between sun and rain.

I admit defeat, smile in return. He boyishly claps his hands together with joy and sits beside me on the window ledge.

He points at a boy before him, then burbles, “Do you know Thomas?”

The kid is wearing a Thomas the Tank Engine hoodie, and I start chuckling, immediately relishing his company.

The fact is, little kids always make me smile.

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