[it hits. it strikes right to the mark and past defense, past even the pull of the ominous steeple (we're here to do the job. and we don't rattle..) as he tries to meet her steady, disquieting gaze before he does turn, her words an anchor.]
We're here to do the job.
[and the job is maybe not possible - it yawns before him as if stretched - an audible, awful thing, but the question stills that too, because:
oh. he knows this one. even though he calls himself many things (writer, son, husband, father, failure) - this one he's sure of and doesn't need to search. it comes easier than anything else has. so she gets the whole thing, no abbreviations.]
Michael.
[another shudder in the foundation (his foundation) as he says it, and he's able to look down at his feet again - to tell this tiny woman that thinks carrying him is an option that he can't wrap his feet because he has nothing to wrap them with - to see that they are only half as torn as he'd thought they'd been (a trick of the shadow, a trick of the lacklight), and that no, that's not true either - that glistening black is under and over - yeah, his feet had been coated in something, but he's also now wearing surf boots. black and blood-sparkled, a challenge to his memory.
he waits for a name in return.]
Carry me? [the tiniest scoff, because she'd been joking. had to be.] No offense, but I'm twice your size.
[and we're here to do the (oh god) job. we don't rattle. we don't. and that lighthouse is...wrong.]
no subject
We're here to do the job.
[and the job is maybe not possible - it yawns before him as if stretched - an audible, awful thing, but the question stills that too, because:
oh. he knows this one. even though he calls himself many things (writer, son, husband, father, failure) - this one he's sure of and doesn't need to search. it comes easier than anything else has. so she gets the whole thing, no abbreviations.]
Michael.
[another shudder in the foundation (his foundation) as he says it, and he's able to look down at his feet again - to tell this tiny woman that thinks carrying him is an option that he can't wrap his feet because he has nothing to wrap them with - to see that they are only half as torn as he'd thought they'd been (a trick of the shadow, a trick of the lacklight), and that no, that's not true either - that glistening black is under and over - yeah, his feet had been coated in something, but he's also now wearing surf boots. black and blood-sparkled, a challenge to his memory.
he waits for a name in return.]
Carry me? [the tiniest scoff, because she'd been joking. had to be.] No offense, but I'm twice your size.
[and we're here to do the (oh god) job. we don't rattle. we don't. and that lighthouse is...wrong.]