He is still in his underclothes, his broad hairy chest poking through the thinness of his shirt. Your sister sits beside him, blonde hair pulled back, already dressed in a simple dress for the day. She eats small, delicate bites and glances over at you, pouting. She was still upset that she hadn't been chosen for the quest -- despite her proficiency with a sword and her (small) knowledge of magical incantations -- and had spent all last night pleading with you, begging, saying that she would do anything to take your place as the leader of the quest.But no, it was you who had been tasked with slaying the dragon. You would not let her assume the danger of the journey -- or your mother or father for that matter. The one who leads the quest must be ready to sacrifice themselves for the group, and you know you would never let her do that. Your mother approaches the table with a plate of her own, also in her small clothes, her large bust pressing through the front of her shirt far enough. Maybe Greta Garbo or William Powell would step out of it. It doesn’t look like the square boxes I remember from the movies. It has that sexy, slinky look that sets it apart. You wouldn’t own one of these unless you smoked cigarettes in a holder, or wore a tuxedo.’ I was chuckling away as she offered her praise to the ancient automobile. She never took her eyes off it, running her hands softly over the fender surfaces. I was about to say something in warning, but thought better of it. She was treating it with reverence. ‘You must be an old film buff,’ I guessed. ‘I’m not that old,’ she turned and teased. ‘I mean the movies, not you.’ ‘I knew that. Yes … I do love the old movies. They were so … staged. So … formal. I guess it was because of the times. When these cars were built, the world was in the great depression. It didn’t seem possible that people could own cars like this. But movie stars could. They lived in their own little dream world. No need to worry about where the next.
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