Running out of air

There is something dangerous in her stillness, as though it exists only to hold the inferno that rages within her at bay- and in a sense, it does. Behind the black and flinty eyes there is pain and anger, hurt and disbelief, a growing aggravation with the man before her who dances lightly around every wound, never quite saying what he means. Amalia has never been good at dancing. She has never excelled in puzzles or challenges pertaining to subtlety and wit. A blunt instrument, she does not know how to skirt around struggles except through silence and repression, and so she does so now. Without a word the baker nods, her gaze far from Jigano as she turns the dough out to the counter before moving away to fetch the pot, filling it with water from a nearby bucket and setting it upon the stove. It is only when she returns and he makes his admission that the girl glances up, sharply, something bewildered and wounded briefly in her face before it is shuttered again. "I heard you were sick," she replies softly, returning to kneading her loaf. "I looked for you." She shrugs. You did not want to be found. a m a l i a You were young and you'd stare With a reverence unimpaired Searching in your dark eyes to find the stars already there