~Love’s Table ~

Canada sighed, breathing in the sweet smell of jasmine. India had settled right next to him, her natural scent basking from her sari, and she was winking at him over her cards in hail to their newly found friendship. He had to smile backâ€"she was just so sweet when she did that. In opposition to her scary, silent anger before the storm of rage broke when something was truly hurting her, she placed a hand of ever-growing bonding upon his ownâ€"her dark, smooth skin against his light tone.

He was very handsome, indeed. Clothed in a red flannel shirt, baggy blue jeans and spiky brown hair (with fiery red tips), he looked like a cross between a Euro-style DJ and a poet. He had a serene sort of expression on his face constantly, almost like a permanent, small smile, and the joy in his eyes was irreversible. This was Canada: the pacifist boy of wonder, who could see the beauty of all things, all people, and live happily enough not to find conflict within himself or others. When he needed to vent, he wrote, and those scribbles bloomed into something so lovely, it added all the more to his ancient character. He had gone his whole life without the presence of true enemies, yet he surprisingly got flack for it. “How can a real person have no enemies?â€