Merge changes from HPEditGirl into master

AMBER authored
revision fab4e6860df79f6f1445b9856607ee365b304dca
chapter1
# Chapter 1: Where did we leave off?

I always thought it was strange the way he closed his eyes right before he asked a question. It was like he was seeing the question in his mind: where to use _inflection_, how to curl his _lips_, whether and how to use his lemons for **emphasis**. But when he opened his eyes and began to speak, I was moved by the passion of his words, the tenderness of his sentiment. It was too bad, I suppose, that I was expected to hate him with all my heart for all the things he did to my mother before I was EXCOMMUNICATED. where did my comments go?

Well. That was definitely the last time I was going to eat at THAT establishment. What a load of shit! Have you ever read a German lieder? Is it Easter yet? No, not quite. Oh, how annoying. It's almost enough to make your eyes bleed. And then to think that watering eyes may be the least of your worries...

There was a time when KFC was my favorite place in the world to eat. I'm not sure that time still exists. And then....

Even so, as I stared at this man, this man with the magnetic personality and the clear, blue eyes, I couldn’t help but wonder what he could have done. What could this man, this sparkling, wondrous man, possibly have done to earn my mother’s ire? I watched him with something like rapture and marveled that he, drawn in wild colors and with such broad strokes, could have been part of my mother’s monochrome at all. How could her life ever have encompassed his? Was she once brilliant and bright, all technicolor and enchantment, or was he once tranquil and subdued, hiding behind everyone else’s—anyone else’s—glory? I couldn’t picture it, though. I couldn’t picture it for either of them, neither she in full color nor he in restraint. They were incompatible figures, and though miraculous in their own ways, it was a study in futility to attempt to imagine them existing in the same palette.

He sat on the other side of the table, across from me, arms folded across his chest, eyes closed in pre-question contemplation, and I was overcome with twin desires: to smash him ove the head with a cast iron skillet or to melt into him, or
as if he were seeing the question in his mind: where to use _inflection_, how to curl his _lips_, whether and how to use his hands for **emphasis**. But when he opened his eyes and began to speak, I was moved by the passion of his words, the tenderness of his sentiment. It was too bad, I suppose, that I was expected to hate him with all my heart for all the things he did to my mother before I was born.

Even so, as I stared at this man with the magnetic personality and the clear, blue eyes, I couldn’t help but wonder what he could have _done_. What could this man, this sparkling, wondrous man, possibly have done to earn my mother’s ire? I watched him with something like rapture and marveled that he, drawn in wild colors and with such broad strokes, could have been part of my mother’s monochrome at all. How could her life ever have encompassed his? Was she once brilliant and bright, all technicolor and enchantment, or was he once tranquil and subdued, hiding behind everyone else’s—anyone else’s—glory? I couldn’t picture it, though. I couldn’t picture it for either of them, neither she in full color nor he in restraint. They were incompatible figures, and though miraculous in their own ways, (perhaps, if I'm feeling generous), it was a study in futility to attempt to imagine them existing in the same palette.

He sat on the other side of the table, across from me, arms folded across his chest, eyes closed in pre-question contemplation, and suddenly I was overcome with twin desires: to smash him over the head with a cast iron skillet, or to extend my hands, inviting him to dance. Somewhere, on a radio or television in another house, perhaps on another street, someone was listening to boogie woogie music. It was all I could do to remain impassive. My thighs ached with the effort.