’I know the one you are now.’ It’s a nice thought, isn’t it? (A not-unwelcome sensation, the way his chest clutches the way his gut twists, the way his eyes are drawn so suddenly back to Ludo.) Isn’t so awful, the idea of being known when being known means he’s beheld by this man.
But the knowing must be incomplete. But the man he is now can’t exist outside of what he was, what he carries still within him, the way even today his fingers remember the exact heft of his knife. He glances away again, takes a seat when it’s offered, grateful for Ludo’s proximity and grateful as well for the table between them. The drink sits nearby, and yes Daud could use it but no he isn’t going to reach for it, isn’t going to allow himself that ease.
No, better to focus on what needs to be said. Which is tangled. Which is difficult to tease apart, difficult to track toward any kind of a beginning. “I don’t want to—”
No; that won’t do. For a moment he’s silent again, rubbing absently at his jaw, the entire tale and its preamble suspended. What should he say. What should be kept quiet. And how can he offer a choice. Remember what Katrina said. Remember how to offer.
“Before coming here, I didn’t stay in any one place for long. I had no reason. Nothing to hold me and no interest in keeping still. I’ve been up and down the coast, spent a few years across the sea, and never felt compelled to linger longer than a few months, half a year at most.
“Until now. Until here.
“I don’t want to leave. This place has become—“ ’You have become—‘ “Something like home. But I can’t keep living under false pretenses.
“Or I shouldn’t.
“I think you should know. Who I’ve been, as much as you’re able to hear.
“If you’d care to. If it’s anything you— If you have reason to know. I’ve been strange to you lately, I know that. I haven’t—
“What I’ve got to say. I don’t know if you’ll want to hear it. But I need to offer.”
He’s staring at his gloved hands, fidgeting still, wanting to look up and yet not daring to make contact. Let Ludo speak his piece first. Let Ludo consider his options, not now seeing the halfway pleading in Daud’s eyes, the traces of need and wishing. Let the man make his own decision.
no subject
But the knowing must be incomplete. But the man he is now can’t exist outside of what he was, what he carries still within him, the way even today his fingers remember the exact heft of his knife. He glances away again, takes a seat when it’s offered, grateful for Ludo’s proximity and grateful as well for the table between them. The drink sits nearby, and yes Daud could use it but no he isn’t going to reach for it, isn’t going to allow himself that ease.
No, better to focus on what needs to be said. Which is tangled. Which is difficult to tease apart, difficult to track toward any kind of a beginning. “I don’t want to—”
No; that won’t do. For a moment he’s silent again, rubbing absently at his jaw, the entire tale and its preamble suspended. What should he say. What should be kept quiet. And how can he offer a choice. Remember what Katrina said. Remember how to offer.
“Before coming here, I didn’t stay in any one place for long. I had no reason. Nothing to hold me and no interest in keeping still. I’ve been up and down the coast, spent a few years across the sea, and never felt compelled to linger longer than a few months, half a year at most.
“Until now. Until here.
“I don’t want to leave. This place has become—“ ’You have become—‘ “Something like home. But I can’t keep living under false pretenses.
“Or I shouldn’t.
“I think you should know. Who I’ve been, as much as you’re able to hear.
“If you’d care to. If it’s anything you— If you have reason to know. I’ve been strange to you lately, I know that. I haven’t—
“What I’ve got to say. I don’t know if you’ll want to hear it. But I need to offer.”
He’s staring at his gloved hands, fidgeting still, wanting to look up and yet not daring to make contact. Let Ludo speak his piece first. Let Ludo consider his options, not now seeing the halfway pleading in Daud’s eyes, the traces of need and wishing. Let the man make his own decision.