Jo's head turns so that she can look at him straight on finally. She hates and drowns herself in the fact staring at him is easier.
(She's not even letting herself move to see if there are still six letters, in the shaky line of a small child and a stolen knife, carved seated-low on the inside of the bar. Whether the box of her father's things is still in the second storeroom — the one not for the perishables. If all the books and her mother's meticulous records of all the cases to pass through.)
He changed things. That earns a slow frown. Like he'd chiseled a new name on a grave marker. Because he felt like it. Because he could. She has no clue what to do what that feeling. Because he says it, but he goes on standing there, not saying anything more than she asked, but almost a little too precisely. Like she might pop if his words had any more pressure.
So she does something she does too well. She pivots.
no subject
Jo's head turns so that she can look at him straight on finally.
She hates and drowns herself in the fact staring at him is easier.
(She's not even letting herself move to see if there are still six letters, in the shaky line of a small child and a stolen knife, carved seated-low on the inside of the bar. Whether the box of her father's things is still in the second storeroom — the one not for the perishables. If all the books and her mother's meticulous records of all the cases to pass through.)
He changed things. That earns a slow frown. Like he'd chiseled a new name on a grave marker. Because he felt like it. Because he could. She has no clue what to do what that feeling. Because he says it, but he goes on standing there, not saying anything more than she asked, but almost a little too precisely. Like she might pop if his words had any more pressure.
So she does something she does too well. She pivots.
"Should I expect that to happen to me, too?"