His eyes moved to the tree trunk in his hands. Back to her.
"'How,'" he said. The specific, even tone of a question that was not fully a question.
"'Relieve your stress,'" she said.
He looked at her for a second.
Then, slowly, set the trunk down.
"'And how,'" he said, "'would you do that.'"
She opened her mouth.
No sentence arrived.
The specific, immediate failure of the plan at the point where the plan required verbal content. She had gotten here — she had crossed the clearing, she had done the arms-below, she had said 'relieve your stress' with the specific register she'd aimed for — and now the next sentence was supposed to be ready and it was not ready.
She looked at him.
He was looking back.
The purple eyes in the firelight.
