Jacob More (cont.)

he filled his room with them, tacked them to the walls in one fit of rebellion. it didn't have the desired effect. his father had stopped in the doorway & surveyed his son's handiwork. the moment was steeped in his memory with a greenish tint - the fawning sun outside his window, sinking to evening, but also the hue of disappointment, of failure, and lastly, of envy. then he was gone, like a ship in the night.

Adolfo had stared at his bare, dirty feet & the hardwood floor. the next day, he tore every single word down & stared at the heap. he took them out to the woods, a sheaf of them struggling against the wind, bound together like captives to the gallows. as he knelt, matches in one hand, untying the bundle with the other, a single word slipped its fetters & flew greedily off into the forest. for a moment, Adolfo hesitated - was it worth it? - he decided, and struck the match. acrid sulphur rocketed up his nostrils & his eyes sprang with tears. the flames devoured his years of tireless work, and did it quickly, efficiently, remorselessly.

he would spend hours into the chill evening, hunting down that final word, crashing heedless & blind through the brush & low bramble. he would find nothing.

he returned to the house, purpled with both dispirit & with a deeper, secret jubilance to which he didn't dare admit. his parents sat, wordless, eating their dinner. Adolfo pulled out his chair & sat down. he picked up his fork, and joined them.

"Ah - to this day, I can remember the color of the sky that night - it was black as a bruise ... blacker than ink ... starless, moonless, & unforgiving ..." the old man coughed and squinted at the sky. "I must apologise," he said. "I know it must be quite boring for you. Rather like a member of the congregation forced to listen to the prattling sounds of an inept priest - but here, the storm is passing, & soon you'll have no reason to remain." he polished his glasses with an unbloodied corner of the handkerchief. "Am I quite right in assuming that?"

She stares at him, then looks away, at the street & its gray puddles, then down, at her lap, where she has unconsciously laid her laced fingers like a docile cat. instantly, she pulls them apart, tucks a wet strand of hair behind her ear & fixes her eyes on the old man. he has been watching her, the barest suggestion of a smile on his crushed, purple mouth. he has been watching her decide, and how to decide to convey her response. it comes like a film in a projector, of course, in her eyes, snapping to the front - there it is, the slightest defeat on her lips.

"Very well," he acknowledges, & continues -