Rivi, Destroyer of Worlds

“You should really do something with all this art, Sebastian,” Rivi says. “There’s so much of it.” She has been flipping through my virtual portfolio on my laptop, without asking permission first, of course. She’s more of an “act first, apologize never” sort of person, really.

“I am doing something with it,” I say. “I’m keeping it on a hard drive and letting it age gracefully.”

She grabs a throw pillow off the couch and does exactly that with it: throws it at me. “Don’t be a dip,” she says. “Do something with it. Put it on your blog.”

“I don’t do that kind of thing on my blog, Rivi.”

She folds her arms across her chest. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t. I never have.”

“So start then, Sebastian. Sheesh. The new year’s coming. Do something new, for Crom’s sake. Change it up.”

“I hate change, Rivi. I hate it.”

She goes back to scrolling through my images. “You quit your job, moved to the woods, and bought a haunted house. You’re all about change.”

“The house isn’t haunted,” I say.

“Sebastian. It’s a hundred and seventy-five years old. Of course it’s haunted.”

“And I hate change,” I say again.

“Whatever,” she says. “Just put some pictures on your blog before I do it for you. I know your password, so it’d be real easy.”

“You’re a menace, Rivi.”

“Got my license and everything,” she says. “Now get to publishing, monkey boy. Make with the pretty pictures.”

Fine.

Pushy dame.