Once she started, she couldn’t seem to stop. The sound reminded me of water rushing over a riverbed that had been dry for ages. I really had hurt her! Then she straightened, tears streaming down her face, and burst into laughter. Why was I so bad at romance? Reyna made a squeaking sound, then a sort of sustained whimper. Oh, gods, what had I done? Perhaps I should comfort her, hold her in my arms. Oh, well! the Romans would reply, and that would be that. When they returned to camp, the Romans would ask, What happened to Apollo? Who? Reyna would say. Or worse – Meg would help Reyna bury my remains, and no one would be the wiser. By the time Meg rushed to my aid, it would be too late. Her expression was unreadable, like the outer surface of an explosive device. Reyna stared at me long enough for the marching band in my circulatory system to play a complete stanza of ‘You’re a Grand Old Flag’. You know, like … yeah.’ I was absolutely certain that up on Mount Olympus, the other Olympians all had their phones out and were filming me to post on Euterpe-Tube.
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