[ he gets it, he guesses. some folk don’t have a whole lot of choices and hell maybe marrying to get a roof of their head and a fresh start somewhere no one knows ‘em — for some folk, that’s the only card left on the table. sunday sounded like a man that should have the whole damn deck open to him, laid out one by one, his to choose and pick over. sunday sounded too good to be true.
and boothill expected to be standing’ here, looking dumb as rocks, while the train whistled away without no sunday on it ever.
imagine his surprise when that’s not what happens. when sunday looks just as good as the dreamy, angelic vision that he sold on paper in their letters. there’s no mistaking him, ain’t ever been a man more fitting of the name sunday.
and here’s boothill, all thought of manners so long damn forgotten, while sunday is picture perfect. probably knows which little spoon and fork to eat with at a fancy dinner table. he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so underdressed in his life. every hair is damn well perfectly in place on sunday. with the sun hitting his hair just right, he looks… nothin like the kind of downtrodden fella boothill was expecting to attract. a man’s gotta be some kind of desperate to marry a stranger for a fresh start.
hell if boothill can relate to that kind of serene face sunday’s pulling, politely offering up his hand like he didn’t respond to some classified about matrimony. ain’t he just optimistic, implying this could be a blessing. boothill knows damn well his face is showing how baffled he is at the offered hand, but he only fumbles a moment before he takes sunday’s white-delicately gloved hand. he’s a heavy handed person, literally, but he takes care with sunday. the corner of his mouth pulls up in a sharp smile, ] Reckon it’s a good thing one of us is an optimist.
[ maybe it’s all that believing and praying, because boothill knows how he looks. contrary to that appearance, boothill does make to politely grab sunday’s luggage after the handshake. there’s got to be a catch and he’s still waiting for it. ] It’s just Boothill, yknow. Don’t you think it’s a little too much to call your future husband mister?
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and boothill expected to be standing’ here, looking dumb as rocks, while the train whistled away without no sunday on it ever.
imagine his surprise when that’s not what happens. when sunday looks just as good as the dreamy, angelic vision that he sold on paper in their letters. there’s no mistaking him, ain’t ever been a man more fitting of the name sunday.
and here’s boothill, all thought of manners so long damn forgotten, while sunday is picture perfect. probably knows which little spoon and fork to eat with at a fancy dinner table. he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so underdressed in his life. every hair is damn well perfectly in place on sunday. with the sun hitting his hair just right, he looks… nothin like the kind of downtrodden fella boothill was expecting to attract. a man’s gotta be some kind of desperate to marry a stranger for a fresh start.
hell if boothill can relate to that kind of serene face sunday’s pulling, politely offering up his hand like he didn’t respond to some classified about matrimony. ain’t he just optimistic, implying this could be a blessing. boothill knows damn well his face is showing how baffled he is at the offered hand, but he only fumbles a moment before he takes sunday’s white-delicately gloved hand. he’s a heavy handed person, literally, but he takes care with sunday. the corner of his mouth pulls up in a sharp smile, ] Reckon it’s a good thing one of us is an optimist.
[ maybe it’s all that believing and praying, because boothill knows how he looks. contrary to that appearance, boothill does make to politely grab sunday’s luggage after the handshake. there’s got to be a catch and he’s still waiting for it. ] It’s just Boothill, yknow. Don’t you think it’s a little too much to call your future husband mister?