sons could be birds,
taken broken up to the mountain
taken broken up to the mountain
Something about Melita makes her easy to be around. She asks so little of him - stand here, speak occasionally, tackle the problem at hand. All her ebullience fills in the gaps, bubbling up through the silence, sealing it with laughter and honey-colored light. Like complements - flame to shadow.
Nathaniel stands patiently as she measures, taking this opportunity to study her expression, the quick flit of each movement. Whether or not the end result turns out doesn't matter much to him. Selfishly, he really only cares about the moment, about being near someone he holds no obligations toward. Her question catches him off guard, and because of this, maybe, he doesn't answer at first. When he does, it's with a shard of honesty. "I lost my chickens." His tone does not betray the depth of emotion behind this fact. Not the guilt, or the strange hollow sadness which has been eating away at him. He didn't even like the chickens, but they're gone, and it's his fault. Probably frozen to death weeks ago.
Nate sighs. "Maybe I should have learned to knit," he says with a rueful smile. "Could have made them all sweaters."
Nathaniel stands patiently as she measures, taking this opportunity to study her expression, the quick flit of each movement. Whether or not the end result turns out doesn't matter much to him. Selfishly, he really only cares about the moment, about being near someone he holds no obligations toward. Her question catches him off guard, and because of this, maybe, he doesn't answer at first. When he does, it's with a shard of honesty. "I lost my chickens." His tone does not betray the depth of emotion behind this fact. Not the guilt, or the strange hollow sadness which has been eating away at him. He didn't even like the chickens, but they're gone, and it's his fault. Probably frozen to death weeks ago.
Nate sighs. "Maybe I should have learned to knit," he says with a rueful smile. "Could have made them all sweaters."
