sons could be birds,
taken broken up to the mountain
taken broken up to the mountain
The difficult thing about people, Nathaniel remembers, is how often they prove unknowable. He thought, for example, he understood something about Melita a few moments ago. And now — now the lens through which he views her shifts, another color fading into the kaleidoscope lens, and she is altogether different. "Weapons?" he says, and he says it aloud, the surprise honest in his voice. He thinks of the girl as he sees her now: sprightly, brilliant, the flutter of her hair and the yarn in her hands. He cannot replace this vision with one edged in blood. He cannot conjure a true version of her. His voice tilts against something like an uncertain laugh. "I guess you can never be too prepared."
But then she does the thing people do, and turns the question back on him. And Nate doesn't have an answer, really. Not one made for public consumption. He wants a lot of things, but none of them are things he can ask for. None of them are things he can even admit to wanting. His expression blurs for a moment, his face not sure what to broadcast, and he looks away. "New boots maybe," he says at last, and kicks one of his feet forward as if to demonstrate. But he doesn't really want anything he can put his hands on, and the statement feels unutterably stupid even as he speaks.
Of course, now he feels unutterably stupid, and his face feels warm, and he still isn't really looking at Melita. More like at the ground, or anything else. He moves away from the wall with a decisive push. "Let me know if he likes it?" he says, indicating the sweater. "I should probably get back to my dog."
But then she does the thing people do, and turns the question back on him. And Nate doesn't have an answer, really. Not one made for public consumption. He wants a lot of things, but none of them are things he can ask for. None of them are things he can even admit to wanting. His expression blurs for a moment, his face not sure what to broadcast, and he looks away. "New boots maybe," he says at last, and kicks one of his feet forward as if to demonstrate. But he doesn't really want anything he can put his hands on, and the statement feels unutterably stupid even as he speaks.
Of course, now he feels unutterably stupid, and his face feels warm, and he still isn't really looking at Melita. More like at the ground, or anything else. He moves away from the wall with a decisive push. "Let me know if he likes it?" he says, indicating the sweater. "I should probably get back to my dog."
