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Show 156 of them. He had probably sewn the green poncho he wore tonight. It was fringed in white, with occasional buckles 1n the fabric where the stitching had gathered, and narrowed to a point in front and back. Something in the way Shannon sat was an affront. One bony knee was crossed over the other and the foot of the leg that was on top hooked around the opposite calf and came out on its original side, tapping the air. He wore sandals and bermuda shorts, and Lorin found the exposure of so much pale flesh distasteful. His left hand cradled his right elbow against his body, his palm elegantly open to the ceiling, the cigarette between his fingers nearly touching the back of his wrist until he brought it with a flourish to his lips. It was a characteristic posture; Lorin had seen it for years. He sat that way and tilted his head to one side and looked at you quizzically if you said something silly. What Lorin found unforgiveable, apart from the quizzical look Shannon was giving him right now, was his fondness for being outrageous. Once in a three-dimensional design class, Lorin had watched in disbelief over a period of weeks as Shannon had taken mallet and chisels to a block of maple and with infinite care and pains reduced it to a homunculus two feet long with a round featureless head. He had spent several more days sanding, oiling, and buffing the creature, and had then wrapped it in a blanket and carried it with him everywhere he went. He had clearly taken pleasure in the stares and averted faces on campus, and had serenely ignored comments along the sidewalks of the Village as he carried it into stores and restaurants. Somebody-not Lorin, who would not have given him the satisfaction-had told him that a gang of mothers had started a whisper campaign and were going to drag him out of class one day soon and beat him up. Shannon had smiled and tilted his head, and said "Marvelous." It went on for a month, and then one day he appeared on campus without it, and never alluded to it again. |