George did not know how to talk to Demeter. She walked across the lawn towards him like a miracle. The late afternoon sunshine on her red hair whiplashed his face and he felt the tips of his fingers burn with the energy of her. He was dazed by her mouth. He wanted to cross himself at the power of her, he wanted to lift her hair away from her long neck and kiss her madly so she would never forget his name.
But he was just a boy. A boy who had a soft voice that made kind people lean towards him as he tried to speak of his Aunt. He felt his voice was borrowed today. It was on hire somehow and could be recalled at any moment. And as he spoke it was as if he was waiting for his words to be snatched away; so he released them slowly, each word a sharply shaped pebble for listeners to turn around in their hands. There were corners to each word.
Hello then Demeter.
What an uneven boy she thought. Uneven and suddenly tender. And there she saw him again holding his aunt’s hand, purely and only for her.