sons could be birds,
taken broken up to the mountain
taken broken up to the mountain
The conversation moves on — kindly, blessedly. If she wonders about him, if she worries about him — but why would she? They are not friends. Friendly acquaintances, maybe, but those are so much easier than friends. They have no obligations to him. No sense of ownership.
Surprise registers briefly on his face as she mentions the gift exchange. Who's organizing things like that? It sounds so quaint, so normal in a world deprived of normalcy. As if the people here have anything to give away. Nathaniel finds he likes this about Melita, though. Whoever she is, wherever she comes from, she seems to carry within herself a sort of abundant light. If her soul were a color, it would be yellow. The soft yellow of honey and buttercups and spring sunlight.
Next, she holds the tangle out to him. Simpering, Nathaniel shakes his head. "No," he answers without a hint of apology. Maybe he would be better off, now, absent a wife and no plans to acquire one, if his mother had taught him anything about keeping a home. "My job was outgrowing clothes and destroying them, not making new ones." He offers a wry smile. "It can't be too hard, though," Nathaniel adds, with the optimism of someone who has never attempted fiber craft. He does not mention his parents' house, within easy walking distance. He isn't going there today. Certainly not with a pretty young woman. Not for any amount of goodwill.
"You know how big this person is? Just… start with one side and go from there." He crouches as he speaks to pick up the trailing ends of yarn and begin untangling them, picking out bits of grass as he does.
Surprise registers briefly on his face as she mentions the gift exchange. Who's organizing things like that? It sounds so quaint, so normal in a world deprived of normalcy. As if the people here have anything to give away. Nathaniel finds he likes this about Melita, though. Whoever she is, wherever she comes from, she seems to carry within herself a sort of abundant light. If her soul were a color, it would be yellow. The soft yellow of honey and buttercups and spring sunlight.
Next, she holds the tangle out to him. Simpering, Nathaniel shakes his head. "No," he answers without a hint of apology. Maybe he would be better off, now, absent a wife and no plans to acquire one, if his mother had taught him anything about keeping a home. "My job was outgrowing clothes and destroying them, not making new ones." He offers a wry smile. "It can't be too hard, though," Nathaniel adds, with the optimism of someone who has never attempted fiber craft. He does not mention his parents' house, within easy walking distance. He isn't going there today. Certainly not with a pretty young woman. Not for any amount of goodwill.
"You know how big this person is? Just… start with one side and go from there." He crouches as he speaks to pick up the trailing ends of yarn and begin untangling them, picking out bits of grass as he does.
