“Help Mother Hera! I'm being talked to death.” grunted Rode sarcastically.
Moments go by, like a stream, sometimes fast and pure, most times slow and stagnant. But as much as Rode tried to hate the mystery girl, she couldn't quite understand why her eyes never left the girls playful face, or her tasteful lips, or the way her short hair bounced as she spoke, so barely entranced was Rode that she stood there, zoning out into the space in between where dreams and reality lives, a space called daydreams.
“Meanie!—Meanie!” shouted Guero, trying to bring back Rode's attention. “Why'd you run go back to beat them?”
Rode stumbled back into reality. “Beat who?” she said.
“The guards, you know.”
“Well, let's say there's an unconscious vestal that's lying about somewhere. And I'll be held responsible if she's ever found,”