“Your eyes are black.”

I glared at the blond head bobbing beneath my nose, propping my hands on my hips as I did so. “So?”

“That's not possible,” she informed me in a matter-of-fact manner that made me want to scream, crossing her thin arms beneath her breasts in an indignant way that was too close to mine for comfort. “People have dark eyes, yes, but they're never really black, you know.”

It was one of those times where you didn't know whether to laugh or cry: either laugh at the absurdity of the conversation, or cry at how poorly this girl – who the hell was she, anyway? – was informed.

“Then why the hell did you say mine were black?” I shot back, somewhat nettled by the whole conversation. I don't like being taken by surprise: never have, never will. Even less did I appreciate silly little girls without the sense to be polite coming up to me and talking about my eyes, and I told her so.

“Well, you'd better get used to it” was Mystery Girl's only answer while she grinned – wide enough to kill – truth be told, I was surprised her cheeks hadn't just split open and bled after that one.

Her voice changed then – became lower, huskier, with a trace of a Kentucky drawl all too familiar to me. “There's a powerful lot of meddlin' in these parts...”

“Stop it.” I returned to my pancakes, gathering up the accents of my youth from the dusty back room of my mind, feeling the familiarity slip off of my tongue like the syrup clutched in my hands. “The Southern don't suit you.”