I’m self-taught, [ is said with a smile and self-deprecating smugness, albeit muted by sleepiness and the spreading warmth from mon bien-aimé.

His hand dance segues into traced figure eights. ]

It’s alright. It doesn’t eat at me the way it would eat at you.

[ It nips and nibbles, more and more than it used to. But he still outruns it, most of the time, when ghosts or well-meant compliments don’t trip him.

That might be the problem. But if the guilt ever really gets its teeth into him, it will do worse than dim a smile. ]

And if the Maker won’t have me, in the end, I’ll jump the fence and come find you anyway. You can hide me under your bed.