i'm just a silhouette / mallory

[branch calix oliver]

[/style][style=width: 358px; padding: 20px; background-color: #000; color: #999; text-transform: lowercase; font-family: garamond; font-style: italic; font-size: 13px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-align: justify; border-right: 1px dotted #0A0A0A; border-left: 1px dotted #0A0A0A;]Shadows settle on the place that you left. Our minds are troubled by the emptiness. Destroy the middle, it's a waste of time. From the perfect start to the finish line—

The hour had passed where the school had started to quieten down, the usual hive of activity slowing into the calm of the evening. After the sun began to set, few students wanted to brave the February weather; Cal had slipped out of the gates alone and unseen, sketchbook tucked under his arm and clasping the battered tin of pens and brushes that he so depended on. He found himself drawn to one of his most frequent haunts: the edge of the Mayview bubble, the brick wall that divided the boarding school from the outside world.

A slight chill gripped the air, but the cold brick at his back and the cold earth where he sat were hardly noticed. Instead Cal was watching the way that late dusk changed the world around him, with his hands as much as with his eyes; sometimes his pencil seemed to respond to his environment before he knew what he was looking at. At the horizon, the sky's dull blue faded into the reddish-purple of an amaranth. Every time he came out here, he saw the same hills rolling, the same dips and hollows, the same roofs in the distance; but the changeable Michigan weather meant that every day, the unique quality of the light would make the landscape in his sketchbook different. With quick strokes, his pen gave shape to the just-returning foliage of the tree boughs. From the bushes beyond the silhouette of the gazebo, its metal wires like ornate old lace, he could hear the occasional rustle of the birds making the last chirps of the day.

He was still enough almost to be invisible in the half-light; the quick darts of Cal's hands across the page were all that showed. A cigarette slouched low between his lips, long-forgotten and apparently extinguished.

[lena2]

within an hour of schools end mallory was still at school. she had a test to retake and the teacher wouldn't allow her to do it during class time. it was her last chance to take it and she wasn't feeling to great about it. she forgot to study and maths was never her strong subject. of course she had to get good grades or else her parents would take her out of the dance program, but that never stopped her from being bad at something or just plain lazy. she was certain that she would get a c. maybe a b, but that was stretching. the test took her approximately an hour and afterwards she didn't know what to do with herself. she roamed the school grounds until her cell rung, playing a select piece of the song cherry bomb by the runaways. it was her mother, she could tell by the tone. she unlocked the screen and greeted her mother, "bonjour mère. puis-je vous aider?she tapped her foot impatiently. her family still lived in france without her and it wasn't all fair that she was sent to live in america. she was impatient with her in every way, shape, and form. her mother went on to tell her that her dog, Benjamen, was put down today. they had no more tolerance for all the messes he made and decided as a family to let him run in the great fields in the sky. mallory was speechless. the dog had been her best friend since primary school. she had grown up with the blonde labrador at her side. it grew with her and cried with her. she couldn't process the death. she hung up on her mother in mid-scentence.she didn't want to her her whiney voice anymore. with tears streaming down her face she ran toward the only place she could think of. the brick wall she had discovered when she came to Mayview. it was in a quiet almost dank place that no one every went to. the air was dark, seeing as spring wasn't yet here. she pulled her hood over her head, covering her set of raging curls. she arrived at the wall only to find at boy sitting on the brick of the wall. but she didn't give a shit. not today. she bent to the far end, hiding her face, and she boosted her self onto the wall. she pulled her jacket in tighter and said, "do you mind?" gesturing to the fact that she was sitting on the wall as well.
MALLORY

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[branch calix oliver]

[/style][style=width: 358px; padding: 20px; background-color: #000; color: #999; text-transform: lowercase; font-family: garamond; font-style: italic; font-size: 13px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-align: justify; border-right: 1px dotted #0A0A0A; border-left: 1px dotted #0A0A0A;]Shadows settle on the place that you left. Our minds are troubled by the emptiness. Destroy the middle, it's a waste of time. From the perfect start to the finish line—

Cal was startled out of his reverie by the sound of soft footsteps over the grass. His head jerked up quickly to see who it was. This part of the grounds was too far away from the school for many people to come here, especially at this time of year - he hadn't expected to be interrupted. In an almost instantaneous movement, he fastened the sketchbook shut and laid a defensive hand over its cover.

It was a girl. Long dark hair, hood - he didn't catch more than an incomplete glimpse of her face as she vaulted onto the wall, apparently ignoring his presence. Cal stood and straightened up, the book gripped firmly in his fingertips. There was something tense in the still, watchful way he stood, as if ready to move almost without warning to somewhere he wouldn't be disturbed. But he didn't.

"Do you?"

He made no move to turn her away, but nor did he make any sign of friendliness. It was difficult to tell whether her presence was immaterial to him or something he resented. He leaned his side against the wall, slightly facing the girl, his hand and arm resting along the top of the wall a few feet away from where she was sitting. The steady, even gaze with which he regarded her would have been eye contact, had she been looking; but it could more easily have been called scrutinizing than welcoming.

He wasn't sure of her name, but he'd seen her around the campus before; at a school like Mayview, if you'd been here long enough and kept an observant eye, there were few unfamiliar faces. Pretty, with a slightly elfin look. He thought he recognised her as one of Cabral's friends. Or cronies.

It was then that he recognised the damp glint on her cheeks.

"Hey — are you crying?"

[lena2]

the air was chilly and full of humidity. it was as if the air was begging her hair to curl even more. she did not like it when her hair curled. it made her look like a lion. especally with the auburn hair she had. as a child the kids in her class would call her fille félin. which translates directly to mean feline girl in english. it was one of the many taunts that she braved in her childhood. sometimes the insult or name would stick with her for a long time, upwards to a few years. it was one thing she could never understand, in the seventeen years of life she had lived, how could people stand to be a bully? how could they wake up in the morning feeling okay with themselves when the day before they made a child cry over a silly name. how could they hug their parents with the same arms they beat her with? it was amazing how messed up their lives must of had to be for them to feel like peer abuse was okay. that it wasfun. even though she was now in high school, she still got teased and bothered by people in the school. there were girls who made fun of her accent and the way she would use french if she didn't know the english word and then there were the boys who taunted her dancers body, making crude comments and making her feel uncomfortable. it was almost as if the world was set in making her feel like a zero her whole life.

the boy started towards her and she pulled herself together, but only in the slightest. her shoulders went down and the muscles in her face loosened. she hoped that it would help him think she was just some crazy girl who just so happened to like sitting on brick walls. though, her heart was still beating like a jack rabbits, it thumped I her chest pumping blood into her body, especially her cheeks that were turning red from the cold and sadness in her. She really hoped he wouldn't notice or get any closer where he could definitely notice the tears on her face. He started to talk and all she could hear was the beating of her heart and the suspense in the air. She couldn't stop thinking of benjamen. Why did he have to die? He was a kind dog that never did anything but sleep and keep the children when told to. He was loyal to the end and probably would have ran to mallory to say goodbye if he could have. That's how much he loved her and she likewise. She caught the last part if his words. crying. damn he noticed. She crossed her ankles and set them against the wall. "no. It's just um the rain." rain? Really, that out of all the excuses running through her mind actually made it out. She said it in a matter of fact tone, making her voice as strong as she could, which wasn't very strong. It wasn't even raining, and yet she desperately prayed for god to send some rain down. If only he actually listened to her.
MALLORY

[/div]

[branch calix oliver]

[/style][style=width: 358px; padding: 20px; background-color: #000; color: #999; text-transform: lowercase; font-family: garamond; font-style: italic; font-size: 13px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-align: justify; border-right: 1px dotted #0A0A0A; border-left: 1px dotted #0A0A0A;]Shadows settle on the place that you left. Our minds are troubled by the emptiness. Destroy the middle, it's a waste of time. From the perfect start to the finish line—

He had been talking around the cigarette that still rested in his mouth, but now his hand moved up to remove it. Without thinking about it, he tucked it habitually behind his ear the way he sometimes did a pencil or brush. He would smoke it later, and afterwards would probably find himself absent-mindedly reaching behind his ear again for the one he had just finished. He was far too easily distracted.

"Okay. It's just raining on your face." His voice was quiet, but cordial; there was a lightness behind it without sounding like amusement at her expense. "My mistake."

He squinted at the horizon into the distance: completely clear, free of the heavy snowclouds that had plagued Hadley recently. The different shades and hues were still running together, but before too long it would be dark. This distance from the school buildings, they were too far out to get the benefit of the electric lights scattered around campus.

"It's an unusual kind of phenomena, personal rainclouds... rare, but not unheard of. Must have a pretty unique cause."

His fingers, stained with coloured ink, ran abstractedly over the moss between the bricks. Then his hazel eyes turned back to Mallory, flickering over her expression as she gained his attention once again.

"So weather girl, d'you have a name?"

[lena2]

weather girl. really, did she set herself up for that? it was like he was begging her to cry more. she wasn't all that good at taking things. it didn't matter if it was an insult or a compliment. it always ended up being that she would either hold it in or let it wash off of her. she was the kind of girl that refused compliments because she felt like they didn't mean it. she was the girl that would hold every name, weight joke, and crude comment in until she was full of bad energy that made her burst out some times. it could be either chaos or a small blow over type of thing. hiding her accent best she could she started to speak. it was a taste of the chaos that was to come. "weather girl? well, thats a new one." she spoke it at a normal tone and tried her very hardest not to blow up. after all, this boy was absolutely new to her. she had never seen him before and he might have known her, but then again, no one ever does. he was a stranger. so why was she blowing up on him? he didn't seem like the kind to deserve a good yelling at. he seemed too sweat.
the wind started to pick up and it was blowing in every which way. it pulled at her hair and yanked her hood off of her head. exposing her to the murky sky and the sunlight that just so happened to be peaking through the grey sky. swearing slightly in french under her breath, mallory raked her hair out of her face. it was getting caught in her tears and making her face a mess. she caught a glimpse of the boy who was scrutinizing her. he had a chiseled face that was full of freckles. it was almost as if one day someone kicked some sand in his face and it stuck. he was covered in them. and not to mention the reddish brown hair that covered his head. he looked like someone straight out of a movie. "i think weather girl'll do. i don't fancy giving out my name to strange men in overcoats." she squinted in the smog and looked at the cigarette that was set in the crook of his ear. "would you happen to have another one of those? she gestured to the cig. she's never been a fan of cigarettes but it seemed appropriate to take one now. awaiting his no doubt, sassy response, mallory wiped at her face and again, brushed her hair out of her face.MALLORY

[/div]

[branch calix oliver]

[/style][style=width: 358px; padding: 20px; background-color: #000; color: #999; text-transform: lowercase; font-family: garamond; font-style: italic; font-size: 13px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-align: justify; border-right: 1px dotted #0A0A0A; border-left: 1px dotted #0A0A0A;]Shadows settle on the place that you left. Our minds are troubled by the emptiness. Destroy the middle, it's a waste of time. From the perfect start to the finish line—

Cal eyed her with a mild streak of amusement flickering across his face. She didn't look like a smoker, and something about the way she asked reinforced that assumption, but appearances could be deceiving.

"Sure, but I'm not sure you'll keep it lit in all the drizzle."

He pulled a small tin out of the cavernous pocket of that coat; then, holding that in one hand, he rummaged through again until he found a battered box of matches, which he laid on top of the wall for the time being. Opening the tin revealed it to be lined with a couple of crumpled rizlas and a dusting of loose tobacco. He took out one of a diminishing line of (not entirely competent, faintly misshapen if one was pedantic) handrolled cigarettes and held it out for the girl to take.

"So, strange men in overcoats? What if I took the overcoat off?" He struck the match against the side of the box and listened to the hiss as it sparked. Cupping his hand against the breeze, he gestured for Mallory to come a little closer. "Don't inhale too soon - not the first drag - or you'll be coughing up sulphur. Occupational hazard."

It was cheaper to smoke rollies, there were fewer additives, the matches were arguably better for the environment than a disposable lighter - but that was pure pretension, and Branch knew it. Call him old-fashioned.

"So, no name. Will you at least tell me what grade you're in, or is that confidential too?"

[lena2]

Shivering from the gusty wind, mallory vowed to never again come to this wall. If this boy was here who knows how many others could be coming there. If it wasn't for the great view this wall had or its protection from the real world, mallory would never had found it. She liked going places people never went. She liked being alone with the wind and the earth. It made her feel like one with nature. She was often found in wide open spaces that were far from others just because it meant there would be no others. It was the only way she was kept sane. Without her secret spots, mallory would just be another girl in the school who had no ability to be different or do different. She felt like it was important for her to become something, something worth more than normal people. It was in her moral code to stay away from normal. Normal people had no fun, but neither did crazy people. She had to be the exact middle between the two extremes. There was a fine balance between each status and she was sure that she was on that line. No one could categorize her as an outcast or a popular, a good girl or a bad girl. She was just there. She was her and she was brilliant. Glancing at the boys face, she couldn't decide weather he was crazy or normal. He looked normal but there was something in him that preached otherwise. She lifted her butt off of the wall and she scooted closer to him with her arms. She bit her lips and brushed her hair behind her left ear and she reached her thin fingers towards the rolled smoke. Grasping it in her left hand, she twirled it between her fingers, acting as nonchalant as she could. It was all she could do to keep her cool. "I wouldn't do that, you might catch a cold." the edge of her smile curled at the end of her sentence. She really was too sarcastic. Maybe she just needed to learn how to talk normally. It sees like whenever she talked, it was either full of sarcasm and wit or stutters and quiet words. It all depends on who she was with really. With some people she could be cocky and with others that was impossible. This boy really brought the sass out of her though. "maybe I've done this before, I dont need help knowing how to breathe." why the hell did she just say that? She had a cig once with her parents when she was a kid and she absolutely hated it. Why would she consider herself an expert now? Placing the wrinkley paper in her mouth, she inhaled deeply, despite the fair warning from mr overcoat. She coughed her lungs out and couldn't stop wheezing. She held the cigarette between her two fingers just like she saw her parents do. "bloody hell, junior." she wheezed into the wind, each syllabul sounding itself out with the smoke escaping her lips. Her accent was full blown and she sounded like her mother. Great, just what she needed today, to sound like the monster who killed benjamen before his time. MALLORY

[/div]

[branch calix oliver]

[/style][style=width: 358px; padding: 20px; background-color: #000; color: #999; text-transform: lowercase; font-family: garamond; font-style: italic; font-size: 13px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-align: justify; border-right: 1px dotted #0A0A0A; border-left: 1px dotted #0A0A0A;]Shadows settle on the place that you left. Our minds are troubled by the emptiness. Destroy the middle, it's a waste of time. From the perfect start to the finish line—

Cal leaned close to Mallory to light her cigarette, turning his back against the wind and using his hand to shield the match. Then he stepped back slightly, shook the match out and let it fall to the ground. Her sarcasm had him smirking, and he had quirked an eyebrow more than once at her comments - but at the same time, he couldn't help but pay attention to the sound of her voice as much as what she was saying. Something about her sounded different - the unfamiliar hint in the tone, the way she pronounced things. He couldn't quite place it. It sparked his curiosity.

Then before he could reissue his warning, she had taken a deep drag and almost instantaneously was doubled over spluttering. Cal couldn't help it: he grinned, he tried to surpress it, and he broke out laughing. They said that pride came before a fall, and this was such a perfect example: her haughty, cocksure statement immediately followed up by hoarseness. He brought himself under control, trying to smother the laughter with an expression of sympathy, but that smirk kept rippling out the corners of his lips. Oh, maybe it was cruel. But it was funny.

For a moment he looked almost blankly at her - after her coughing fit, he had forgotten his question - and then realised that bloody hell, junior wasn't some quaint curse but the answer that he'd asked for. The scent of the smoke pluming from her mouth was blown towards him by the breeze, acrid and harsh to anyone else, but far too tempting for him to let her smoke alone.

"Okay, on account of your youthful inexperience, I'm gonna give you a free pass for that. Just this once," he said. "It's the matches - you wait a sec, let the sulphur burn off. With a lighter, you wouldn't get that. The weird taste will go."

He was about to pick up the tin again, but then remembered the one he had left behind his ear. Putting the cigarette into his mouth, he struck another match and held it to the end after a moment, drawing gently. Blowing out the smoke, he dropped the spent match back onto the wall. If he could afford not to relight what he'd left half-smoked, he would - but at this point, with none of his peers' wealthy allowances, scrimping and saving was something he just had to put up with.

He inhaled fully this time, and as he let the smoke escape from his nose he gave Mallory a sidelong look. "That bit of twirling you did there, very suave, definitely the mark of a connoisseur." His tone was teasing, but not mocking: there was nothing malicious in his humour. "Like a baton. What are you, a gymnast? No, what's the word - majorette."

[lena2]

mallory laughed. majorette? seriously? those girls didn't move the way she did, they didn't feel the music the way she did. they twirled ribbons in the air as if it was a beautiful thing to do. it was like watching a cowboy ring in a pig or a calf. it was disgusting and made her want to run and hid in a safe place.
there was no reason for anyone to feel life threatened enough that they run away from a swinging rope. and anything similar was just as distasteful. there was no reason to toss a stick in the air or throw ribbons and catch them. that was not dancing, and that was not talent. "you get that all from me twirling a cig? n'êtes-vous pas intelligent." she smirked as she coughed out the last of the nasty smoke. she remembered why she hated lighting a cigarette. it was the sulfur. it made her gag, she was possibly allergic to it, but that wasn't very likely. her mother always told her that she was very sensitive to smells. especially ones that she had memories associated with.

at a young age mallory's father would buy cigarettes by the package and smoke at least two a day. it was the cool thing to do. everyone did it and he didn't want to be left out. often times he would get sick from the flavor but he would smoke on because he could. eventually the smoke got to him and he gave it up. people of course teased him, even as an adult. it wasn't all that often but it did happen. about a yer after her father quit smoking mallory took it up. her mother hated it, but she was eleven. she knew how to sneak a smoke. halfway into the year her father was diagnosed with lung cancer. he died suddenly during a risky surgery to replace a piece of his lung tissue. immediately every cigarette mallory smoked she would think of her fathers blue skin in the morgue. how cold he was once he died and her mother had to collect him. it was a sour day for her and she was certain that there were millions of things that fell apart inside her once she heard the news. he wasn't supposed to die. he was young and healthy and her father. "it's not my first time. i just hate the taste." her mind flew back the the young years of her life with her father sitting on the porch in his blue wooden chair smoking away. she would often sit on his lap and play pretend smoking with bubblegum cigarettes.
MALLORY

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[branch calix oliver]

[/style][style=width: 358px; padding: 20px; background-color: #000; color: #999; text-transform: lowercase; font-family: garamond; font-style: italic; font-size: 13px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-align: justify; border-right: 1px dotted #0A0A0A; border-left: 1px dotted #0A0A0A;]Shadows settle on the place that you left. Our minds are troubled by the emptiness. Destroy the middle, it's a waste of time. From the perfect start to the finish line—

"You hate smoking, but you wanted a cigarette from me?" he said, and now there was a hint of a teasing smirk around his lips as well. "Y'know, weather girl, anyone would think you just wanted an excuse to talk to me."

"Il pleut sur la fille de temps." He knew a little bit of French - fragments here and there, words, phrases - just enough to make himself understood and to understand what he listened to, as long as it was spoken slowly. His pronunciation was imperfect and his grammar mostly improvised, but Cal liked to learn what he could. He hoped to actually put it to use someday. He took another drag, letting the smoke curl from his mouth. "I thought I heard an accent. French Canada or France?"

At a school like Mayview, international students weren't uncommon. He supposed that a lot of these kids had parents whose jobs had them flying all over the world. At least that was a legitimate reason for getting sent away here, to this back-of-beyond school.

He returned to the previous topic. "You know, you doubt too much. You can tell a lot about somebody by their habits: you just have to pay attention." He tapped the ash from the end of his cigarette. "I think a lot of majorettes would be pretty offended by your laughter, y'know. Probably call it some kind of art form. World-class olympic sport."

[lena2]

what a mistake it had been coming here. she was being confronted by a boy she didn't know, using french, and now, she was blushing. she couldn't control it, her body was flattered even though her brain told her it made no sense. he had called her the daughter of time. she didn't know what that meant, but it sounded romantic and poetic. like something Lord Alfred Tennyson would write. the last of her tears had dried away and she was left with a shiny glow in her recently hydrated skin. it made her look a lot prettier than she actually was but that didn't matter. she couldn't tell. "thats was my master plan. trés bon. how ever could you tell?" she used sarcasm as a shield, if she didn't want to be toyed with, all she had to do was use the sarcastic dictionary she kept in her mind to come up with witty comments that only she had record of. people thought she was snarky because she didn't like to talk, but when she did it was usually with a comment that made peoples faces burn and their blood boil. it was just how her body worked. it wasn't very good for becoming social, and she definitely didn't win awards for socializing. but she didn't have to talk to people, at least not with her words. she spoke through dance. it was her language that was beautifully said and much harder to speak. "french. i've never been to canada. plus majorettes are very pásse. personne ne danse avec des rubans plus. i'm a ballerina." she said. pulling her body into ready position, en pointe. she held her balance beautifully and kept her feet in the most perfect places. any dancer would know that she was a pro just by this stance.
MALLORY

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[branch calix oliver]

[/style][style=width: 358px; padding: 20px; background-color: #000; color: #999; text-transform: lowercase; font-family: garamond; font-style: italic; font-size: 13px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-align: justify; border-right: 1px dotted #0A0A0A; border-left: 1px dotted #0A0A0A;]Shadows settle on the place that you left. Our minds are troubled by the emptiness. Destroy the middle, it's a waste of time. From the perfect start to the finish line—

Cal's surprise showed on his face. Until now he had kept a facetious tone in his voice, a curl in his lip that told her nothing he said was something he took seriously. But he was impressed - and that was something he couldn't, or didn't bother to, hide. There was something almost surreal about watching someone appear to disregard human mechanics and move in a way that other people couldn't; it was a little surreal to believe that the sleek, still lines of her limbs held the necessary strength to keep her body balanced and upright, the tips of her feet all that touched the ground. It was like she was weightless.

The thought crossed his mind that she would be a fascinating person to draw.

"Wow-- mon dieu." He would reach the limits of his butchered, self-assembly French very quickly if she stuck around. "Vous danse tres beau - tres belle? Vraiment elégante, charmante."

That joking tone was back in his voice, but he meant it.

"France is a sophisticated country. Of course majorettes are too tacky. Where did you live there, near Paris?" Paris, Calais, for all his studying of atlases and guidebooks there weren't many places he could name. Then again, he couldn't imagine many French people were familiar with Michigan. "Que'est-ce qui une fille comme vous, uh... fait dans un endroit comme ce?"

[lena2]

at a young age she was placed into a ballet class by her father, a very well rounded and artistic man. much unlike her mother. he spend hundreds of dollars just so that the small twig of a girl could learn how to express herself. at first she took an ordinary class taught after school, but as soon as her talent had grown enough her father accelerated her learning and put her in as an apprentice to a professional ballet dancer. her teacher, Madame Domorte made her feet bleed and her head spin. he taught mallory how to do twirls and leaps without gropping an inch. it was brutal training but it made the small child a beautiful dancer. soon after her father was taken by lung cancer, her mother took her out of the care of Madame Domorte. it was a sad day and even Madame cried when it was time to say goodbye forever and have her last lesson. that was the day that madame taught her of the importance of a straight en pointe. when your toes are up you have a feeling of invincibility. no one can hurt you those four inched above the ground. but if you lover an inch you start to waver and eventually you must fall down. once you are down you might as well never get back up because its useless to fail twice. standing ni front of the freckeled man she thought of this day. she had fond memories asociated with the move and even though it brought pain to her toes, she was happy and invincible. "une fille comme moi? quel genre de fille suis je?" she looked at him quizically. he was struggling fo rteh correct french but it would come to him. she hoped. "suis je petite, ennuyeuse, jolie? Je suis peut-être ennuyeux et stupide. comment savez-vous quel genre de fille je suis?" she twirled around him doing a bit of a dance. she was happy and this was how she showed it. through dance.
MALLORY

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[branch calix oliver]

[/style][style=width: 358px; padding: 20px; background-color: #000; color: #999; text-transform: lowercase; font-family: garamond; font-style: italic; font-size: 13px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-align: justify; border-right: 1px dotted #0A0A0A; border-left: 1px dotted #0A0A0A;]Shadows settle on the place that you left. Our minds are troubled by the emptiness. Destroy the middle, it's a waste of time. From the perfect start to the finish line—

Cal leaned back against the brick wall to watch her move, the last glimpses of her shadow following her in the near darkness. For all their playful spontaneity, there was something deliberate and disciplined about the way her movements flowed. A delicate, refined control. Yet there was nothing artificial about it. It was hard to ignore the siren call of the pencils and sketchbook that lay only a few feet away.

"Mais je suis... no, uh, parce que je suis un bon..." His abilities were being stretched, now. He understood most of what she said, and unknown words he could decipher by their context; but constructing his own sentences, that was beginning to get beyond him. It was hard to channel all that he wanted to say into the limits of what he knew. It was like trying to distill a kaleidoscope into the confines of faded greyscale. "Because I'm a very good judge of character."

He realised suddenly that his stub of a cigarette had almost burned down to his knuckles. He crushed it on the wall.

"Petite, un peu. Jolie, totalement. Vrai! Ennuyeux et stupide, n'est pas." The hesitations between the words showed that he was having to labour a little for the French. "Malin. Malin de trop. No, not malin, I mean... uh... adroit, plein d'esprit?" His mistakes were ruining the effect. He paused again. "Et, je pense, un peu triste."

There was a little flash of a devilish grin as he said,

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