"That answered my question," he said, tucking his litter into his pocket and standing to go, although half out of habit, half out of deferential terror of her, and entirely in stubborn defiance of lingering irrational fears, he awkwardly put out his trembling, newly-tattooed hand to shake.
(It was a lie: what was it he'd been going to say? He wasn't even sure, but the shape of it, the contour, had been
have I done anything to make you proud of me. Not a question she wanted to hear; not one he wanted to ask, but one he felt compelled to, anyway--compelled to keep asking, again and again, until someday the answer was
yes and his own was
I know. It was the second part, maybe, that was the hardest.)
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