"When I Would Push My Fingers Through..."
Mar. 18th, 2007 10:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
psalm_onethirtyone...Did I say I was going to answer comments to-night? I lied. >_> Also, Narnia was good except we wanted to strangle the beavers, yess we did, preciouss. Apparently being sick brings out my inner vitriol. Chemistry & work to-morrow. Bleh. I made cake for the Human Resources department for being so nice to me when I was stranded there; I hope they like it. Waen dyed the icing funny colours.
At any rate, more Catechism. The beginning and the end of the well-adjusted period.
Gaheris stays the week there.
The first night is the hardest; at dinner, Peredur and Helen chatter and laugh, as if they were old friends who had never had a moment they didn't love one another. Galahad keeps his eyes down and eats quietly, without joining in. Gaheris just tries to listen. He feels out of place, like the extra salt shaker on their table. The first salt and pepper are shaped like small ceramic mushrooms. They go together. The extra one is tall and slender, with little branches that stick out from it where the salt comes out. It doesn't belong.
Helen picks it up, jiggling it just a little to disturb the salt. She looks up and catches Gaheris' eye.
"Got it as a present. My ma, she makes pottery things, but she knows I don't like pepper, so she didn't bother making a set."
"I like pepper," Peredur says mournfully.
"Well, it wasn't your present, was it? Goose." She squeezes his hand.
Gaheris wonders--is this what real families are like? When they're not patched and painful, do they laugh at the dinner table and joke without trying to hurt? Is there never silence?
Galahad gets up and goes to the stove for seconds, wielding the carving knife like an unfamiliar object. It seems funny for a man who was once a knight, someone who almost lived by the sword. After a moment, he says 'oh' and comes back and sits down. His finger is bleeding.
"You cut yourself?" Peredur leans over to him.
"It's not much," Galahad says.
A tiny frown creases Peredur's forehead, and he whispers something. Galahad nods. They both get up.
"We'll be back in a minute! Don't wait." His smile is open, reassuring.
Helen lets her breath out so it blows her bangs away from her face. "Don't worry about it," she says. "They're just gonna talk. Sometimes he needs to."
"Do you want to go with them? You don't have to stay here."
"Silly. I know they can take care themselves. Besides, you're company. We got some manners out here." Her eyes laugh.
"Do you remember?" he asks impulsively.
"Oh, sort of. It all happened so long ago, I forget sometimes. It's like having something way back in the back of your mind, from when you were real little, so you have to try hard if you want to remember how it was. Sometimes I wish I had photographs, some kind of scrapbook, so I could go back and see what it was like exactly. I don't remember what anybody looked like."
"I never met you."
"Gosh, no. Nobody ever did, except Brian."
"Who's Brian?"
"Sorry! That's Galahad." She grins at him. "Pastor Brian Page. There's lot of Pages in this county."
"That's so weird," under his breath.
"What?" He can see why anyone would love her. She's so full of laughter, so shining. She's like Peredur, but a little wiser. When she talks and laughs, her voice dances. He doesn't want to stop looking at her.
"I don't know. The name."
"What's yours?"
"I don't know. I don't remember. I-- I made it go." He looks at her slantwise for her reaction.
She clucks her tongue softly, not reproachful. "Then what am I gonna tell people when they ask who our friend that's staying is?" A touch of laughter. "There's no Gaherises in Perry County."
"I don't know. Uh. Gary?"
This time it's more than a touch, it's a spurt, like water from the hose when your finger's pressed over the opening. "I like it!" They're sitting next to each other; she offers him her hands. "I like that."
He takes them shyly.
She smiles now, gentle, with a soft seeming of understanding, as if he could tell her anything and she'd not be angry, perhaps she'd even know the why behind it. He wants her to know. He wants to tell her all his secrets and all the things that frighten him, the unexplained parts of his memories, the deaths of his mothers, the longing he has for Mordred to be proud of him, the cold that comes when he thinks of his daughter. For a moment he sits poised on the edge of it, and then in one breath he breathes it out and it's gone.
"Thanks."
She takes one of her hands and touches his cheek briefly. "I'm glad you're staying here. I hope it helps."
He nods, sighs a little, and then-- "Is Galahad okay?"
"He's fine. His memory's funny, that's all. He sometimes gets things back all of sudden."
"What?"
"Mostly he just feels the memory, you know?" She tilts her head at him. "Sometimes we even tell him things, and he knows it's right, what we tell him, but he doesn't remember much exactly. Except that sometimes something comes back. It's like lightning, it just sort of flashes into his head. And that's a little funny, and sometimes we have to talk him down."
Gaheris nods again.
"Hey!" Peredur stands in the doorway. "He's gonna lie down. Is dinner still warm?"
"Come and see for yourself," Helen says imperiously.
And of course her eyes are laughing.
~~~
The next day Peredur puts them to work. Helen stays in to mind the store, but Galahad and Gaheris end up in a vast field of greenery on their hands and knees, weeding out the maple sprouts and crane's foot growing between the strawberry plants and their white flowers.
He finally has time to look at Galahad closely, as they work head to head, their dirty fingers sifting through, separating good leaves from bad and then pulling bad out by its roots. Galahad's hair is so fair it's almost white, his face clear. Looks too young to be a priest. His hands are slender and long, with perfect white nails. As he works, he sometimes moves his lips silently.
After a time Gaheris pauses, sitting back on his heels. Galahad looks at him quickly.
"Are you all right?"
Galahad hesitates. "Yes. I'm sorry."
"You keep acting like you're afraid of me--"
"I'm--"
"Helen says you remember the same way I do," abruptly. "What was it last night?"
There's a quiet.
"It wasn't anything important. I mean--to everything. It was important to me. It was Father."
"What?" Gaheris shifts and sits with his knees up, folding his arms on them and leaning his chin on the back of his hands.
"We fought once. I'm sorry, I won't--"
He shrugs. "Tell me."
"When I asked of my mother. He told me that she was dead, and that they never married."
"And you called him on it?"
"No! I only wanted to know why."
"Why?"
"He said it was because she'd tricked him into thinking she was another woman, and he took her to bed. When he found out he cast her away. She died of shame and of want for him."
"That's hard." One part of him means it, and the other part is rolling its eyes. Who among them couldn't remember some kind of trial over love? And it's like Galahad to suppose Gaheris doesn't know who the other woman was. As if it were some shameful secret that he can hide--it's shameful, but no secret. The whole world knows. But Galahad looks at him gratefully.
"I wish I had known her."
"Sure."
"And I wish I had not hated him. I should have spoken then. I should have told him--I should not have held it silently."
"Look, it's okay. You did better than a lot of us. I never told my mother how much I hated her, and I killed her."
He frowns. "--Why?" after a silence.
"I don't know." Gaheris looks away. He shouldn't have said. Just like him. He can't tell anybody he actually trusts, but he tells this boy whose father was the enemy of his family. "It doesn't come back."
Galahad touches his arm. There's so much touch among them, Helen and Peredur and Galahad. His family isn't like that. Mordred ruffles his hair when he wants to plague him--that's the way they touch. During fights, whether they're mock or really meant. "I could bless you. Pray for forgiveness."
"I don't want it," shaking his head. "I'll let it play out. I don't know. If I'm going to be forgiven--anyway I'll just see how it goes."
"Do you believe in God?"
"I don't know. Damn you," he says, trying to laugh. "You always ask the questions I don't have answers to. All three of you."
"It helps me." Galahad fiddles with a strawberry leaf. "When things come back, or I can't sleep. It helps."
"I don't think it would. Me. That's why you're the priest."
"Pastor." He smiles a tiny, pale smile.
"You don't look like it."
"My ladies say that. But I'm thirty."
"Liar," escaping before he has time to catch it; he feels a snatching in his throat where it was just missed. He flushes. "Sorry."
"It's true. Really. Percy's thirty-three, and I'm thirty."
"That means you're older than I am. Jesus. --Sorry."
"It's all right." Another hesitation. "I wanted to tell you--I'm sorry. When you came the first time. I insulted you."
"My brother."
"It was unchristian. I know better than that. I teach forgiveness and grace and love to my people every week, and I didn't summon it myself or extend it at our table. Please tell him I'm sorry."
"I will," Gaheris says gruffly.
~~~
After that the week passes quickly. They weed the strawberries, prune fruit trees, transplant tomatoes from their pots into the warm earth. Gaheris learns to cut asparagus with the little knife, close to the ground, and Helen shows him to cook them. One day he works at the store, with Peredur's help at the cash register.
"We just got it," Peredur says. "We're all still learnin'. Isn't it shiny?"
He stays at the house, though, when Peredur and Helen go to church on Sunday and listen to Galahad preach. Either it's too much too soon, or perhaps it's just because he doesn't feel like sitting through an hour of something he doesn't believe. He waits back at the house, curled up on the living room sofa until the telephone rings, startling him out of his almost-sleep (it's like being under the surface of a still pond, or inside a chrysalis--there's something all around him that doesn't move. It seems to keep him safe). The telephone, though--without thinking he gets up and answers it.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Peredur-- wait. Gaheris?"
"Yeah?"
"What is wrong with you? Why the hell won't you quit running off?"
"Oh, that's rich coming from you," Gaheris says, and hangs up.
Later he hears the others get back from church. There's a cheerful clamour as coats are hung up and cabinets opened. He ignores it. After a moment Peredur comes in, finds him still on the sofa, his head in his hands.
"You okay?"
"Mordred called."
"Oh. You ready to go home?"
"No."
Peredur comes over and sits next to him on the sofa. "You can stay here as long as you want. You know that, yeah?"
"I know."
"Okay. Just checkin'." He smiles slightly.
"How the hell are you so figured out? How do you do it? Everything's wrong with us." It comes out in a burst, with despair that almost shocks him. He feels the way he did when he learned about Lynet's death, as though all the air is gone from him because something's pressing down on him and he can't breathe, can't breathe at all. "I'm so tired," he says, helpless. "I'm so tired. It's better here, but he calls and it's all the same again."
Peredur smooths his hair like a child's. "Shhh. It's okay. I know."
"You don't. God, you're the nicest people, but you don't know what it's like, you're all so good for each other. I feel like I'm going insane. I can't stop thinking. I can't--it's always Mordred. I'm not afraid of Gareth. I wish to God he were like before, but I don't-- I-- He's different, he's so different, and I always wanted him to love me-- Mother told me they all hated me, but I didn't care-- and Mother, too, I can't get away from her--"
"Shh," again. "Shhh."
He realises suddenly that he's crying. Like a stupid little kid he's crying, making little ragged sounds, and Peredur is rocking him, ever so gently, has him pulled close like a mother and child. "Don't-- I didn't mean--"
"It's okay." He wipes at Gaheris' face with his shirtsleeve. "I think Mordred's scared. Couldn't that be what's wrong? It sounds like everything's goin' crazy for both of you right now. Maybe he's even jealous of Gareth, 'cause he's been living with Clar all his life almost, hasn't he? And now Gareth's back, and he's her favourite. Maybe he's feelin' funny 'cause of that. And then Clar went and called him his bad name, too. And maybe he's scared for you."
"For me?"
"You keep leavin'. He don't know why, does he? I bet he can't figure it out, and it's scarin' him like crazy, he's wonderin', 'why does Gaheris keep goin'? Is it us? Why isn't he tellin' me?' Stuff like that."
"I don't think he worries about me. You're probably right about Gareth and Clar."
"Could be," tucking back Gaheris' hair one-handed, still holding him with the other. "So he's takin' it out by gettin' angry at everybody."
"How do I make him stop?"
"I don't know if you can. I think maybe what you got to do is make it so you feel safer, like so it don't make you want to run away when he's like that. Is there anything you can do would make you feel better? And maybe get you outta the house. I guess you don't have a job, or you wouldn't have come down here for so long."
"I could have skipped out."
"Didn't, though. I'm just askin'. If it'd help, then I think you should do it."
He sighs. "I don't know. It's better here. It's--I don't know why. I'm sorry."
"It's okay. It really is. You want some lunch? Helen's makin' barley soup."
"Yeah," nodding, wiping his nose.
"Okay. Come on." His voice is reassuring, steadying; Gaheris nods again, takes a breath, gets to his feet. Peredur rubs his back briefly. "It'll be okay."
After lunch, Gaheris calls Mordred's cell phone.
"I'm coming home."
"About time," says Mordred, tensely.
"Did you have a good trip?"
"Fine."
So he hangs up.
He says goodbye to Peredur and Helen and Galahad, gets kisses from everybody, handshakes and hugs, just like before. Peredur promises again that he can come whenever he wants; Helen gives him a plastic container full of blackberry and pecan tarts. Galahad looks at him quietly and then smiles, a pale smile that brings an unexpected light to his face and makes him look much older, more his thirty years.
"Benedicte, Gaheris."
"Yeah, you, too."
Then Gaheris gets in the Accord and drives away.
At any rate, more Catechism. The beginning and the end of the well-adjusted period.
Gaheris stays the week there.
The first night is the hardest; at dinner, Peredur and Helen chatter and laugh, as if they were old friends who had never had a moment they didn't love one another. Galahad keeps his eyes down and eats quietly, without joining in. Gaheris just tries to listen. He feels out of place, like the extra salt shaker on their table. The first salt and pepper are shaped like small ceramic mushrooms. They go together. The extra one is tall and slender, with little branches that stick out from it where the salt comes out. It doesn't belong.
Helen picks it up, jiggling it just a little to disturb the salt. She looks up and catches Gaheris' eye.
"Got it as a present. My ma, she makes pottery things, but she knows I don't like pepper, so she didn't bother making a set."
"I like pepper," Peredur says mournfully.
"Well, it wasn't your present, was it? Goose." She squeezes his hand.
Gaheris wonders--is this what real families are like? When they're not patched and painful, do they laugh at the dinner table and joke without trying to hurt? Is there never silence?
Galahad gets up and goes to the stove for seconds, wielding the carving knife like an unfamiliar object. It seems funny for a man who was once a knight, someone who almost lived by the sword. After a moment, he says 'oh' and comes back and sits down. His finger is bleeding.
"You cut yourself?" Peredur leans over to him.
"It's not much," Galahad says.
A tiny frown creases Peredur's forehead, and he whispers something. Galahad nods. They both get up.
"We'll be back in a minute! Don't wait." His smile is open, reassuring.
Helen lets her breath out so it blows her bangs away from her face. "Don't worry about it," she says. "They're just gonna talk. Sometimes he needs to."
"Do you want to go with them? You don't have to stay here."
"Silly. I know they can take care themselves. Besides, you're company. We got some manners out here." Her eyes laugh.
"Do you remember?" he asks impulsively.
"Oh, sort of. It all happened so long ago, I forget sometimes. It's like having something way back in the back of your mind, from when you were real little, so you have to try hard if you want to remember how it was. Sometimes I wish I had photographs, some kind of scrapbook, so I could go back and see what it was like exactly. I don't remember what anybody looked like."
"I never met you."
"Gosh, no. Nobody ever did, except Brian."
"Who's Brian?"
"Sorry! That's Galahad." She grins at him. "Pastor Brian Page. There's lot of Pages in this county."
"That's so weird," under his breath.
"What?" He can see why anyone would love her. She's so full of laughter, so shining. She's like Peredur, but a little wiser. When she talks and laughs, her voice dances. He doesn't want to stop looking at her.
"I don't know. The name."
"What's yours?"
"I don't know. I don't remember. I-- I made it go." He looks at her slantwise for her reaction.
She clucks her tongue softly, not reproachful. "Then what am I gonna tell people when they ask who our friend that's staying is?" A touch of laughter. "There's no Gaherises in Perry County."
"I don't know. Uh. Gary?"
This time it's more than a touch, it's a spurt, like water from the hose when your finger's pressed over the opening. "I like it!" They're sitting next to each other; she offers him her hands. "I like that."
He takes them shyly.
She smiles now, gentle, with a soft seeming of understanding, as if he could tell her anything and she'd not be angry, perhaps she'd even know the why behind it. He wants her to know. He wants to tell her all his secrets and all the things that frighten him, the unexplained parts of his memories, the deaths of his mothers, the longing he has for Mordred to be proud of him, the cold that comes when he thinks of his daughter. For a moment he sits poised on the edge of it, and then in one breath he breathes it out and it's gone.
"Thanks."
She takes one of her hands and touches his cheek briefly. "I'm glad you're staying here. I hope it helps."
He nods, sighs a little, and then-- "Is Galahad okay?"
"He's fine. His memory's funny, that's all. He sometimes gets things back all of sudden."
"What?"
"Mostly he just feels the memory, you know?" She tilts her head at him. "Sometimes we even tell him things, and he knows it's right, what we tell him, but he doesn't remember much exactly. Except that sometimes something comes back. It's like lightning, it just sort of flashes into his head. And that's a little funny, and sometimes we have to talk him down."
Gaheris nods again.
"Hey!" Peredur stands in the doorway. "He's gonna lie down. Is dinner still warm?"
"Come and see for yourself," Helen says imperiously.
And of course her eyes are laughing.
The next day Peredur puts them to work. Helen stays in to mind the store, but Galahad and Gaheris end up in a vast field of greenery on their hands and knees, weeding out the maple sprouts and crane's foot growing between the strawberry plants and their white flowers.
He finally has time to look at Galahad closely, as they work head to head, their dirty fingers sifting through, separating good leaves from bad and then pulling bad out by its roots. Galahad's hair is so fair it's almost white, his face clear. Looks too young to be a priest. His hands are slender and long, with perfect white nails. As he works, he sometimes moves his lips silently.
After a time Gaheris pauses, sitting back on his heels. Galahad looks at him quickly.
"Are you all right?"
Galahad hesitates. "Yes. I'm sorry."
"You keep acting like you're afraid of me--"
"I'm--"
"Helen says you remember the same way I do," abruptly. "What was it last night?"
There's a quiet.
"It wasn't anything important. I mean--to everything. It was important to me. It was Father."
"What?" Gaheris shifts and sits with his knees up, folding his arms on them and leaning his chin on the back of his hands.
"We fought once. I'm sorry, I won't--"
He shrugs. "Tell me."
"When I asked of my mother. He told me that she was dead, and that they never married."
"And you called him on it?"
"No! I only wanted to know why."
"Why?"
"He said it was because she'd tricked him into thinking she was another woman, and he took her to bed. When he found out he cast her away. She died of shame and of want for him."
"That's hard." One part of him means it, and the other part is rolling its eyes. Who among them couldn't remember some kind of trial over love? And it's like Galahad to suppose Gaheris doesn't know who the other woman was. As if it were some shameful secret that he can hide--it's shameful, but no secret. The whole world knows. But Galahad looks at him gratefully.
"I wish I had known her."
"Sure."
"And I wish I had not hated him. I should have spoken then. I should have told him--I should not have held it silently."
"Look, it's okay. You did better than a lot of us. I never told my mother how much I hated her, and I killed her."
He frowns. "--Why?" after a silence.
"I don't know." Gaheris looks away. He shouldn't have said. Just like him. He can't tell anybody he actually trusts, but he tells this boy whose father was the enemy of his family. "It doesn't come back."
Galahad touches his arm. There's so much touch among them, Helen and Peredur and Galahad. His family isn't like that. Mordred ruffles his hair when he wants to plague him--that's the way they touch. During fights, whether they're mock or really meant. "I could bless you. Pray for forgiveness."
"I don't want it," shaking his head. "I'll let it play out. I don't know. If I'm going to be forgiven--anyway I'll just see how it goes."
"Do you believe in God?"
"I don't know. Damn you," he says, trying to laugh. "You always ask the questions I don't have answers to. All three of you."
"It helps me." Galahad fiddles with a strawberry leaf. "When things come back, or I can't sleep. It helps."
"I don't think it would. Me. That's why you're the priest."
"Pastor." He smiles a tiny, pale smile.
"You don't look like it."
"My ladies say that. But I'm thirty."
"Liar," escaping before he has time to catch it; he feels a snatching in his throat where it was just missed. He flushes. "Sorry."
"It's true. Really. Percy's thirty-three, and I'm thirty."
"That means you're older than I am. Jesus. --Sorry."
"It's all right." Another hesitation. "I wanted to tell you--I'm sorry. When you came the first time. I insulted you."
"My brother."
"It was unchristian. I know better than that. I teach forgiveness and grace and love to my people every week, and I didn't summon it myself or extend it at our table. Please tell him I'm sorry."
"I will," Gaheris says gruffly.
After that the week passes quickly. They weed the strawberries, prune fruit trees, transplant tomatoes from their pots into the warm earth. Gaheris learns to cut asparagus with the little knife, close to the ground, and Helen shows him to cook them. One day he works at the store, with Peredur's help at the cash register.
"We just got it," Peredur says. "We're all still learnin'. Isn't it shiny?"
He stays at the house, though, when Peredur and Helen go to church on Sunday and listen to Galahad preach. Either it's too much too soon, or perhaps it's just because he doesn't feel like sitting through an hour of something he doesn't believe. He waits back at the house, curled up on the living room sofa until the telephone rings, startling him out of his almost-sleep (it's like being under the surface of a still pond, or inside a chrysalis--there's something all around him that doesn't move. It seems to keep him safe). The telephone, though--without thinking he gets up and answers it.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Peredur-- wait. Gaheris?"
"Yeah?"
"What is wrong with you? Why the hell won't you quit running off?"
"Oh, that's rich coming from you," Gaheris says, and hangs up.
Later he hears the others get back from church. There's a cheerful clamour as coats are hung up and cabinets opened. He ignores it. After a moment Peredur comes in, finds him still on the sofa, his head in his hands.
"You okay?"
"Mordred called."
"Oh. You ready to go home?"
"No."
Peredur comes over and sits next to him on the sofa. "You can stay here as long as you want. You know that, yeah?"
"I know."
"Okay. Just checkin'." He smiles slightly.
"How the hell are you so figured out? How do you do it? Everything's wrong with us." It comes out in a burst, with despair that almost shocks him. He feels the way he did when he learned about Lynet's death, as though all the air is gone from him because something's pressing down on him and he can't breathe, can't breathe at all. "I'm so tired," he says, helpless. "I'm so tired. It's better here, but he calls and it's all the same again."
Peredur smooths his hair like a child's. "Shhh. It's okay. I know."
"You don't. God, you're the nicest people, but you don't know what it's like, you're all so good for each other. I feel like I'm going insane. I can't stop thinking. I can't--it's always Mordred. I'm not afraid of Gareth. I wish to God he were like before, but I don't-- I-- He's different, he's so different, and I always wanted him to love me-- Mother told me they all hated me, but I didn't care-- and Mother, too, I can't get away from her--"
"Shh," again. "Shhh."
He realises suddenly that he's crying. Like a stupid little kid he's crying, making little ragged sounds, and Peredur is rocking him, ever so gently, has him pulled close like a mother and child. "Don't-- I didn't mean--"
"It's okay." He wipes at Gaheris' face with his shirtsleeve. "I think Mordred's scared. Couldn't that be what's wrong? It sounds like everything's goin' crazy for both of you right now. Maybe he's even jealous of Gareth, 'cause he's been living with Clar all his life almost, hasn't he? And now Gareth's back, and he's her favourite. Maybe he's feelin' funny 'cause of that. And then Clar went and called him his bad name, too. And maybe he's scared for you."
"For me?"
"You keep leavin'. He don't know why, does he? I bet he can't figure it out, and it's scarin' him like crazy, he's wonderin', 'why does Gaheris keep goin'? Is it us? Why isn't he tellin' me?' Stuff like that."
"I don't think he worries about me. You're probably right about Gareth and Clar."
"Could be," tucking back Gaheris' hair one-handed, still holding him with the other. "So he's takin' it out by gettin' angry at everybody."
"How do I make him stop?"
"I don't know if you can. I think maybe what you got to do is make it so you feel safer, like so it don't make you want to run away when he's like that. Is there anything you can do would make you feel better? And maybe get you outta the house. I guess you don't have a job, or you wouldn't have come down here for so long."
"I could have skipped out."
"Didn't, though. I'm just askin'. If it'd help, then I think you should do it."
He sighs. "I don't know. It's better here. It's--I don't know why. I'm sorry."
"It's okay. It really is. You want some lunch? Helen's makin' barley soup."
"Yeah," nodding, wiping his nose.
"Okay. Come on." His voice is reassuring, steadying; Gaheris nods again, takes a breath, gets to his feet. Peredur rubs his back briefly. "It'll be okay."
After lunch, Gaheris calls Mordred's cell phone.
"I'm coming home."
"About time," says Mordred, tensely.
"Did you have a good trip?"
"Fine."
So he hangs up.
He says goodbye to Peredur and Helen and Galahad, gets kisses from everybody, handshakes and hugs, just like before. Peredur promises again that he can come whenever he wants; Helen gives him a plastic container full of blackberry and pecan tarts. Galahad looks at him quietly and then smiles, a pale smile that brings an unexpected light to his face and makes him look much older, more his thirty years.
"Benedicte, Gaheris."
"Yeah, you, too."
Then Gaheris gets in the Accord and drives away.
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Date: 2007-03-19 04:37 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-03-19 04:50 pm (UTC)