Scent of Home

The plait turns out adequately enough, far from art but of sufficient quality to sell. Amalia slides it onto a pan as Adam continues to tell his story, head vowed to hide the worried blush at his surprise. To Amalia, isolation is expected: she has never been anything deserving of love, not yet earned the right to aid. Still, she appreciates the thought. Her eyes blink up at the mention of ex-wife, head tilting curiously on her neck. "What happened with her?" the girl asks softly, only vaguely aware of the impropriety of such a question. This, perhaps, is her greatest fear: to love and lose, give the pieces of her away only to have them returned in time, more fractured than before. Stepping back from the counter, Amalia once more surveys Adam, this time taking in his skinny frame beneath the layers of bizarre black clothes. Scarcely an ounce of flesh sits on him. Skinny as a skeleton, her grandmother would say. I can hear your bones rattling. amalia been talking to myself forever and how I wish I knew me better