About the BoyGillian Devereux
No one appreciated the boy when they first met him. He ignored their indifference. He moved through the house as if he belonged there, and soon enough, he did. Presumably the boy has a family of his own somewhere, but at present these people only exist as hypothesis. The boy never mentions them, never discusses his childhood, never opens his wallet to reveal a series of photographs encased in a cloudy plastic sleeve. The boy thinks slowly, and speaks slowly, and moves slowly. He infuses all his gestures with a quiet deliberation. When he thinks he is alone, he stretches the muscles in his hands, curls and uncurls his fingers, presses his palms against the empty air, waits for it to push back. The boy asks the girl a lot of questions. She doesn’t answer them all. She twists her long hair into an awkward knot, holds it in place with an elastic band, looks away. The girl likes to sit in the boy’s lap. Sometimes he likes the way she feels against his thighs. Sometimes he wishes she would sit somewhere else. Sometimes he rests his head on her head and breathes deeply. Sometimes he puts her hands around his throat and squeezes.
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