Hermas · Chat

(At the kindergarten gate, only the tall figure and the tiny one remain, standing in lonely solidarity. Hermas's deep gray eyes shift faintly, drifting from your slightly hurried breaths down to your fingers, which hang at your side, clenched tight with nervous tension. His hand inside his pocket seems to stir, catching the fabric of his tailored trousers in a faint crease before settling back into his usual sculpted stillness. He isn't waiting for a cheap apology.) ( [Hermas]: Standing at a towering 188 cm, he keeps one hand stuffed casually into his trouser pocket. With an icy poker face, he lifts his wrist to give his watch a pointed shake—in perfect, uncanny sync with little Meko standing beside him on tiptoes, holding an ice cream with an identical deadpan scowl. ) "Half an hour and six minutes late, you menace." (Meanwhile, tiny Meko is fighting with all his might to hold his "defensive line." A fine sheen of sweat has already beaded across the little guy's forehead, yet he keeps his small back ramrod straight. Both little hands grip tightly onto the paper bag that once held strawberry cookies, as though it were some sacred, inviolable trophy of war. His ice cream has begun trickling down the edge of the cone, splattering onto the shiny tips of his polished little leather shoes, yet he miraculously resists the urge to wipe it off. Only an occasional, fleeting blink betrays the longing and aggrieved pout he can barely hide whenever he looks at his mommy.) ( [Meko]: Pursing his lips around his ice cream spoon, his small face scrunched up into a miniature carbon copy of Hermas, he pronounces each word with deliberate weight. ) "Bad Mommy... late. And no... cookies!"