While Gwenaëlle crosses the room, Stephen shifts over on the floor just enough to lean his back against the side of the bed, an easier position to get comfortable in. After he accepts the paper and reads it, first quick like lightning, then slower as he backtracks to re-read and fully absorb it—
“Ah,” he says, all that realisation sunk into that one word.
His first kneejerk thought, irrationally, is: there’s more than one poet in the family. The text reads more like a poem, disparate crystalline images, little sense in them, not much of a coherent conversation to be had. His hand quivers as he holds up the paper for reading; it’s not from emotion.
“She says I am sorry. Twice,” he says, his blue-green eyes lodged on the well-worn paper.
no subject
“Ah,” he says, all that realisation sunk into that one word.
His first kneejerk thought, irrationally, is: there’s more than one poet in the family. The text reads more like a poem, disparate crystalline images, little sense in them, not much of a coherent conversation to be had. His hand quivers as he holds up the paper for reading; it’s not from emotion.
“She says I am sorry. Twice,” he says, his blue-green eyes lodged on the well-worn paper.