Page 111 of The Black Table
A beat passes. “A…?” Gwenna prompts.
I chew my bottom lip, eyes straight forward. “A…family heirloom,” I finish.
From the corner of my eye, I see her nod. “Ah. Makes sense.”
At that, I give her the quickest look. “What’s that mean?”
“Just…I didn’t see you as much of a jewelry type,” she says. “You’re very practical. Straightforward. Matter-of-fact.”
I shift a little in the driver’s seat.
She isn’t wrong.
“They’re my parents’,” I say. “Were, I mean.” Reflexively, I rub them together, the wide silver band on my thumb and the thin, delicate gold one on my index finger. “Wedding rings.”
“Oh,” she says simply. Frowns. “Don’t they…get in the way? When you fence?”
“Yes. Sort of.” I run my thumb over the thin gold band, feel the way it catches on the pad of my finger. “I guess that’s kind of the point. That they’re there. A…”
A constant press back on me.
A firm boundary.
A taut leash.
Arestraint.
“…a reminder,” I finish.
God.It’s stifling in here. How did I not notice how high the heat was? I reach down with my left hand, turning the manual crank to let in some air. “Sorry.”
Gwenna’s voice is puzzled. “For…?”
“For…the car gets hot.” I pause. “And I don’t really like talking about myself.”
I expect her to say something polite,don’t worry about itorit’s fine.
But she doesn’t.
“God, who does?” She lets out a huff, staring out the window. “I don’t either. I hate it. I hate just…being perceived in general.”
Something about the way she says it—so deadpan, so sincere—pulls a single-syllable laugh out of me.
“What?” she cries, suddenly indignant. “Is that funny?”
“No, it’s not…” I shake my head, still smiling. “It’s just the way you said it.Being perceived.”
“Well, it’s true,” she says, folding her arms. “Sometimes I wish I could just be a brain without a body. Have everything bend to my will around me.”
This girl says the strangest things. I’m kind of captivated. “Really?”
“Sure. I mean, what’s so great about having a body anyway?”
I shrug. “I like it.”
A small, choked sound comes from my right.
Oh. Oh.
