Deepwood Weald Black-eyed Susan

Reverie. Wren mouths it back to her, letting the syllables swirl around on her tongue like a fine wine. 
Wren herself was more of a rot-gut whiskey, a moonshine made with worn, calloused hands on the side of a mountain. A poison that you know is poison, and yet you taste it anyway, perhaps with the hope it'll kill you. 
Perhaps a week or even a few days ago, Wren would have been all the more openly receptive, but the nervousness was starting to lash and bite at her. Reverie, she says it aloud this time, a throaty whisper that speaks of teenage inexperience. look, it's-- uh, you're very pretty, I just-- had she the ability to, she would be sweating bullets. I've never done this with a woman before? So, uh, can we-- talk? First?