( a part of her is startled, when his hand extends, and she wonders if he's going to give her the bottle back, or something else, or that he's going to keep his arm there again like some kind of barrier on the car of a rollercoaster, keeping her from moving at all. what his palm reveals is something so small and sweet--and surprising, that she glances from the little orange up to him, blinking owlishly, before she can't help herself. a tiny laugh escapes, soft and almost sad, and she plucks the clementine from him, holding it gently between her hands. )
That makes sense.
( she doesn't have to know people like that to be around them--or to want to be around him, which she realizes he hasn't said at all. she doesn't know why he's here, other than to offer her a favor, an equal exchange for whatever it is that he thinks he owes her, in the wake of what they've gone through together, but she should be grateful for it all the same. he could have turned her down: and then she'd be sitting on this roof alone, her head swimming, and no little orange to save her.
carefully, her thumb pinches into the top of the clementine, peeling away the skin to the bottom, but she does it slowly, methodically. like making a flower blossom, out of the peel. it's slow going, like she's rolling around her own words, like she doesn't know how to ask them anyway. doesn't know if she should. he's made himself startlingly clear, after all--she's almost proud of him for it, but doesn't say so.
she sets her blossom-peel on her knee, and splits the fruit in half, wordlessly holding it out to him: her arm outstretched, barred in front of him, just like he did to her. )
So you don't want to learn more about me. ( she says it like it's a guess, like it could be a question. her eyes are on the small bit of food; she picks off a slice and pops it between her lips. )
So you don't want to know me, like that.
( like what? even she doesn't know what she means. )
no subject
That makes sense.
( she doesn't have to know people like that to be around them--or to want to be around him, which she realizes he hasn't said at all. she doesn't know why he's here, other than to offer her a favor, an equal exchange for whatever it is that he thinks he owes her, in the wake of what they've gone through together, but she should be grateful for it all the same. he could have turned her down: and then she'd be sitting on this roof alone, her head swimming, and no little orange to save her.
carefully, her thumb pinches into the top of the clementine, peeling away the skin to the bottom, but she does it slowly, methodically. like making a flower blossom, out of the peel. it's slow going, like she's rolling around her own words, like she doesn't know how to ask them anyway. doesn't know if she should. he's made himself startlingly clear, after all--she's almost proud of him for it, but doesn't say so.
she sets her blossom-peel on her knee, and splits the fruit in half, wordlessly holding it out to him: her arm outstretched, barred in front of him, just like he did to her. )
So you don't want to learn more about me. ( she says it like it's a guess, like it could be a question. her eyes are on the small bit of food; she picks off a slice and pops it between her lips. )
So you don't want to know me, like that.
( like what? even she doesn't know what she means. )