That afternoon, Irenya led Mikey away from the busy streets, skirted a farmer’s gardens, back to the quiet grove where they had worked the day before. Last night’s fears cloaked him. Pale and withdrawn, too reluctant to even try, he sat hunched against the tree that had yesterday witnessed his triumph.
‘I’m sorry, Mikey. I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how to put the pieces together, what to make of the things you do, the things you say.’
Mikey stirred, toyed with a twig, then flicked it in her direction. ‘You’re pretty fuckin’ touched too. You don’t know just how touched you are. Dolly, dolly.’ He giggled. ‘You’re not my fuckin’ sister.’
Irenya walked away, muttering her own obscenities.
That evening, as patrons gathered in the tavern, Mikey arrived late for his dinner, s
