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Show 195 "I'm invisible," Hunt said. Shifting packages, trying to smile. "Well, Jesus . . ." The man wore a down vest over a turtleneck. " . . . you're certainly . . . hell: looking healthy. You lose weight?" "Gave it away." Hunt bit his lip to keep from smirking. He broke the skin inside his mouth, tasted blood. The filmmaker set his jaw like a tennis player readying a smash: "Man: I know a lot of people like you, you know -- but, I mean, if you want to know the truth ..." Give me the truth Give me the truth! Hunt heard his mind mock-pleading. "... I think you're pretty much an asshole." And the filmmaker turned and started, striding, across the pavillion. "Merry Christmas!" Hunt called out. The filmmaker raised a finger into the air. That night, at dinner, missing the marten, worried about his father, Hunt studied his family. Todd was happy; he had his first oil painting and had announced himself. Sean was happy; he was in love with a girl at the Limits of Iowa. Leah had her family and a blue spruce bound with lights. And Hunt no longer had a wild secret in a cage. After the meal, Leah sidled up to him. "Take a bath with me?" she asked. "What?" Hunt's eyes drew wide. "Share a bath? -I love you. Don't you think that would be nice?" Hunt stripped and joined her in their large tub. "You get the uncomfortable end." Leah laughed. "With all the hardware." |
