He should, he’s certain he should. But those words…
’I hardly understand myself.’ He hadn’t, precisely, expected a response. Had almost forgotten his own statement, and it’s odd, isn’t it, that he should hold her words now? Most often, his drinking turns meaning into nothing (into absence) (into fear). Phrases fail to cohere, words lose their attachment to sense.
This, though… This clings to him. Sinks down inward, spinning a recognition he can’t quite grasp. Something familiar in this cadence. Something in this admission he knows. Something that halts his sinking for one moment, then another.
The pressure at his hand.
The softness in her voice.
(She hasn’t struck him. Shouldn’t she have struck at him by now?)
(When will the blow fall? (Why, for this moment, this moment and the next, could he nearly believe there won’t be any blow, no fatality tonight?))
And her hand at his cheek.
And her thumb soft against him.
She doesn’t want to fuck.
She might not mean him only ruin.
(She hasn’t chided him. Hasn’t run him from this room or had him murdered in the moonlight. That might mean something.
Hasn’t even tried to take his wine.
…She came to him. He doesn’t understand. (And neither does she.))
He keeps his eyes on her, questioning still and trying to discern… something, anything coherent. Trying to remind himself keep safe and hold himself protected, but it’s hard not to sit right where he is, let hr stay right where she is.
He doesn’t hate the things she’s said. Wouldn’t it be good for something to turn out well? Even one thing only. It’s impossible, a foolish idea from a… Well, she is young, as well as farm-grown. Hasn’t learned enough yet, that’s so.
(He wants to… tilt his head against her hand.
He doesn’t do that. Jolts his head slightly aside, though not wholly away from her touch.
(He doesn’t hate her touch. This touch. Any touch, well, of course, it’s cold here, that’s the cause of his own, ha, temperature.)
Well. If she’s going to make a fool of him in the morning, he might as well… Not enjoy this, no, but let this happen. Allow a little of her warmth to glance upon him.)
Again there’s confusion when he speaks, an edge of derision, and a trace of something other, something like a ghost-end of his own plea. ]
no subject
He doesn’t draw away.
He should, he’s certain he should. But those words…
’I hardly understand myself.’ He hadn’t, precisely, expected a response. Had almost forgotten his own statement, and it’s odd, isn’t it, that he should hold her words now? Most often, his drinking turns meaning into nothing (into absence) (into fear). Phrases fail to cohere, words lose their attachment to sense.
This, though… This clings to him. Sinks down inward, spinning a recognition he can’t quite grasp. Something familiar in this cadence. Something in this admission he knows. Something that halts his sinking for one moment, then another.
The pressure at his hand.
The softness in her voice.
(She hasn’t struck him. Shouldn’t she have struck at him by now?)
(When will the blow fall? (Why, for this moment, this moment and the next, could he nearly believe there won’t be any blow, no fatality tonight?))
And her hand at his cheek.
And her thumb soft against him.
She doesn’t want to fuck.
She might not mean him only ruin.
(She hasn’t chided him. Hasn’t run him from this room or had him murdered in the moonlight. That might mean something.
Hasn’t even tried to take his wine.
…She came to him. He doesn’t understand. (And neither does she.))
He keeps his eyes on her, questioning still and trying to discern… something, anything coherent. Trying to remind himself keep safe and hold himself protected, but it’s hard not to sit right where he is, let hr stay right where she is.
He doesn’t hate the things she’s said. Wouldn’t it be good for something to turn out well? Even one thing only. It’s impossible, a foolish idea from a… Well, she is young, as well as farm-grown. Hasn’t learned enough yet, that’s so.
(He wants to… tilt his head against her hand.
He doesn’t do that. Jolts his head slightly aside, though not wholly away from her touch.
(He doesn’t hate her touch. This touch. Any touch, well, of course, it’s cold here, that’s the cause of his own, ha, temperature.)
Well. If she’s going to make a fool of him in the morning, he might as well… Not enjoy this, no, but let this happen. Allow a little of her warmth to glance upon him.)
Again there’s confusion when he speaks, an edge of derision, and a trace of something other, something like a ghost-end of his own plea. ]
You can’t believe that.