Chapter Twenty
"I think it suits me."
He stares at me with a mixture of despair and disbelief, eyes not quite directed at my face but at my hairline.
"What?"
"You," he says, carefully, "are the only person I have ever met who could not only convince a nun to quit her life's service, but also to give you her habit."
I grin, teeth and everything. "Bless you my child."
We're about halfway down the steps from the ant farm cunningly disguised as the city hospital, when I realise - I don't know why, but it could be the way he's nonchalantly narrating his number of footfalls - that I haven't been counting my life away. How in the hell did that happen? Every nanowatt of brainpower goes into staying on the wagon. Of course, the minute I begin concentrating on how not to start counting, the idea starts building up in my mind, like a ball of snow tumbling down the mountain of my eyes. The movement of the snow hits home the lack of momentum my feet currently have - he's already on the pavement, the hem of his slacks dangling into the murk of a puddle. I tune back into reality and start towards him.
"Three... four..."
Fuck.
"You have to talk to me again."
"What?"
"You have to talk to me again. And stop counting. That doesn't help."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
I manage to step ahead and twirl in front of him. "Since we have left the hospital, we have taken 2,337 steps. You have scratched the same spot on the left hand side of the nape of your neck fifteen times, and we have passed seventy-six lamp-posts. Are you getting my point?"
Once again, that stare. I want to take that stare right off his face. Say something, damnit. Anything.
"Right."
Well, that's something.
Fifty-seven seconds later and he's shufflng from foot to foot, trying to think of something constructive to say without reverting back to his businessman self. Sorry, his ex-businessman self. How could I forget. We're standing face to face, five feet from each other. People are passing either side. SAY SOMETHING. Something reassuring. I'm not asking you to tell me you do the same, have done ever since your dad ran away when you were five years old to keep you sane and stop you thinking about the things that scare you. I'm not asking you for a life story, I don't care about your name. Just say something to remind me I'm human.
He stares at me with a mixture of despair and disbelief, eyes not quite directed at my face but at my hairline.
"What?"
"You," he says, carefully, "are the only person I have ever met who could not only convince a nun to quit her life's service, but also to give you her habit."
I grin, teeth and everything. "Bless you my child."
We're about halfway down the steps from the ant farm cunningly disguised as the city hospital, when I realise - I don't know why, but it could be the way he's nonchalantly narrating his number of footfalls - that I haven't been counting my life away. How in the hell did that happen? Every nanowatt of brainpower goes into staying on the wagon. Of course, the minute I begin concentrating on how not to start counting, the idea starts building up in my mind, like a ball of snow tumbling down the mountain of my eyes. The movement of the snow hits home the lack of momentum my feet currently have - he's already on the pavement, the hem of his slacks dangling into the murk of a puddle. I tune back into reality and start towards him.
"Three... four..."
Fuck.
"You have to talk to me again."
"What?"
"You have to talk to me again. And stop counting. That doesn't help."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
I manage to step ahead and twirl in front of him. "Since we have left the hospital, we have taken 2,337 steps. You have scratched the same spot on the left hand side of the nape of your neck fifteen times, and we have passed seventy-six lamp-posts. Are you getting my point?"
Once again, that stare. I want to take that stare right off his face. Say something, damnit. Anything.
"Right."
Well, that's something.
Fifty-seven seconds later and he's shufflng from foot to foot, trying to think of something constructive to say without reverting back to his businessman self. Sorry, his ex-businessman self. How could I forget. We're standing face to face, five feet from each other. People are passing either side. SAY SOMETHING. Something reassuring. I'm not asking you to tell me you do the same, have done ever since your dad ran away when you were five years old to keep you sane and stop you thinking about the things that scare you. I'm not asking you for a life story, I don't care about your name. Just say something to remind me I'm human.
posted by Gutterflower at 8:59 PM
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