In high school, M was asked what he thought of the War. “It has happened,” M said, “it’s occurring.” To him it was like the weather. He’d gotten wise since then. They needed you to have an opinion.
J had once respected M, but with time her sentiment withered into admiration. That too had faded: now she merely loved him.
For once, M tried to listen, but was immediately diverted by a curious sound. Were those actual bagpipes, or was it a recording? No, thought M, it must be a ringtone.
M paused, reconsidered his course. He had pride in his willingness to correct when untrue. But often its effect was to keep him stuck; movement required a measure of faith, as Zeno once proved.
$3 when he had 5. He had never told J how costly his gift was. Could he mention it now? M bit his lip grandly, as an acting student might.
As the days grew inward, his time with J began to lattice. The rules of sequence continuted elsewhere, surely, but in his own life M increasingly failed to adhere. “What’s good?” asked J. “Oh, nothing,” M replied.
