curse your little heart.

[secondhand_stars]

<center>All the pains are now going
And the grafitti says Peter Pan
And the Rainbow zoo
Will rainbow, will rainbow

In the morning I think of my cousin
And all the spanish I can't tune
What does the sun say when it smiles?
It will smile, It will smile

With your camel face
Take a baby so pretty
Every house has a key
Or it won't open, or it won't open

Todo los dolores (trans) - Devendra Banhart




Aemilia Donovan Prior</center>

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ August 29, 2006 09:46 PM: Message edited by: perestroika ]</font>

[secondhand_stars]

The school had once been a grand hotel. Along the walls, grainy black-and-white photographs hung in testament to the destruction that taken place all in the name of Lycee Francais de Manhattan. She had read once that serial killers and rapists tended to take mementos from their victims to keep the memory alive. The photos were as good as an underground snuff film to her in that light. The beautiful rooms with their Victorian wallpaper had been torn apart. The ornately carved wood of the lobby's main desk was now ash swept out of a fireplace.

Bits of beauty remained tucked away. The sweeping chandelier in what had been the lobby remained with its heavy crystal teardrops and carved mermaids. The floors were marble shot through with silvery veins. It was all needlessly opulent against the otherwise academic look of the school. The only thing that remained whole was the glass atrium that served as the cafeteria. There, with the sunny afternoon overhead, students gathered for meals.

Aemilia sat at the end of a long table. Slouched over the top, she sat with her head propped up on the heel of her palm. In the other hand, she made idle pencil notes in her sheet music. Complicated notes piled atop one another on the lines and created a melody inside her head. The lunch that had been prepared for her stayed within her paper bag.

Around her students grouped in clustered and spoke animatedly. They chattered mostly in English with a few, more select students pressed in and murmuring exclusively in French. They were the children of natives and diplomats where the others were simply the offspring of Manhattan's upper echelon. Aemilia fit into neither group, but belonged to both just the same.

[secondhand_stars]

The heart of the sprawling Stanton family was firmly planted in the surburbs. Here, trees grew tall and blurred out the existence of the island city that loomed miles away. One would never guess from the sleepy manner that cars prowled up and down privatized streets that a bustling urban jungle was so close. Here was where punk retired. As driver steered the sleek back car up the winding driveway, she saw no signs of wild East village beginnings or transatlantic flights. The decadence and ruin of youth had resurrected into something that could have been a parody had its casualities not been so sincere. In a purely accidental way, everyone had fallen into the same traps that their flower child and revolutionary parents had. The past was covered up with split-levels and immaculately kept lawns. Hurtful truths were distracted with fancy private schools. Aemilia couldn't fault anyone.

When the door popped open, the cluster of faces pressed to a window upon her arrival had disappeared. The braver few with their elfin features and curling, unruly hair flooded out of a side door and now overwhelmed Aemilia with reaching arms. She hugged them all, laughingly and waggled fingers to her driver.

One would assume between a mother like Lani and the sheer number of children, the house would be in chaos with toys spilling out of open cabinets and the floor littered in food stains and bits of paper. Instead, the house was as orderly as the grounds it stood on. In the kitchen, a chart of chores and responsibilities outlined what tasks each child was expected to complete for the week. Another sparkling with sticky foil stars rewarded those efforts.

"Aemilia, hi! I'm so glad you were able to come up." Lani emerged from another room, alerted to the arrival by one of the younger Stanton children. The little boy dragged his mother in with fingers clinging to her knuckles.

She glanced up, a hand pressing back her hair as she smiled shyly towards her aunt. It wasn't like her to be bashful. Most days, Lani would find her in the middle of some game with the children. She blended in easily with her sharp features and slight build. It was only the shock of her green eyes that separated her from the crowd of children.

"Hey guys, have you finished your homework?" She eyed the group that flooded around Aemilia and competed for her attentions with new toys and ancedotes for the older cousin. They glanced over warily, eyes hooded sheepishly. A few nodded that they had not. "Go back upstairs and finish your work before Dad comes home."

None protested. Behind the sweet, if not flighty demeanor of their mother was a hard-edged businessman. There was no need to try and negotiate with the woman who had already spent the afternoon verbally sparring with boardmembers and production teams. Aemilia watched the kids scamper off. The youngest eyed his brothers and sisters before arms lifted beseechingly towards his mother. Lani scooped him up, a hand smoothing through his pale flossy hair. "He's so shy. Just like Asher. You can't get a word out of him sometimes." A kiss loudly squeaked against his cheek and sent the toddler cackling. Tiny arms clung tighter and his rosy face buried into her neck. "What can I do for you? God. You look so pretty with your hair like that."

"Thanks," she said with a grin. When Lani ticked fingers in, Aemilia followed her away from the main traffic of the house to where her aunt kept a small in-house office. It allowed her to stay home several days a week with the kids. She ran a finger along the sleek corner of the desk. "I remember when you used to live above Satellite."

Lani gave a laugh. "That was an awful long time ago. I think you were only as big as him," she jostled the little body snuggled close to her. " -- When Asher finally had it with us living there. It was too small after Jack was born."

"Do you miss the city?"

"Well -- Sometimes." Mismatched eyes flooded around the office before peeking out onto the lawn of the backyard. There, a playground stood and trees grew up large enough for one to house a sprawling treehouse. The Stanton home was a monument to family in a way. The idyllic quality fostered by the two parents and neighbouring grandmother filled her with strange, muddled feelings. It was only when she was here that her own family life seemed so unconventional. "But this is better for the kids."

"What was your life like before us?"

"What?" She laughed, glancing back to Aemilia. Nodding her head to the couch, she sat at one end and rearranged the toddler across her chest. Fingers plucked at his shirt at the shoulders in idle care. Of everyone, Lani had emerged the most changed. The intensity and overemotion of her youth had been funneled into the care of her flock. She was serene now with her quiet smile and inquiries. The tattoos that still inked skin were almost shocking as she pushed up sleeves. "Oh Mimi, you know -- Like this, but different. It was a really great time. I mean it. We used to have so much fun. Did you know that I used to let people squat in my old, old apartment? Imagine it: grungy musicians and juggling street performers sprawled out over your floors and some tweaked out poet scrambling eggs and shouting Corso."

"Did my dad ever squat?"

Her expression sobered into something almost sad. It was one thing that would never change -- she wore her emotions on her sleeve. Through thin skin, one could see the transformation almost before her mouth could turn downward. "Sort-of. Once." Blinking, head shook aside. Her nose wrinkled up towards her niece. "Like your parents could ever be apart though."

"Did Seven ever stay over?"

"No, no. Seven's always been Lucy's friend." She laughed absently, eyes rolling to the ceiling. "I remember when she called me in Tokyo to say that she was there with him. She was a couple of months pregnant with Holden then. If it wasn't for Liv and her store, I would have been afraid we'd never see her again."

The idea of never having known Holden struck Aemilia as swiftly as a blow. She felt her breath drain out of lungs and features droop. It was awful. It was an impossibility. Skinny arms folded over the front of her knit sweater and she buried chin into its collar.

"How is Holden?"

"Oh, he's -- He's perfect. He's Holden."

"You should have brought him. You know I love him to death. He's getting to be so handsome. I mean, he was always a cute kid but now he's really something. I'm sure the girls are all over him at school. Tell him to come over soon, okay?"

She nodded, feeling words build in her mouth. It was a blurt waiting to happen. She could already see Lani's expression fade into shock. Pressing knuckles into her mouth, Aemilia listened to her aunt go on. "Aunt Lani, I --"

"Yes, baby?"

"What was Charlie like?"

Lani was silent for a long moment. Pressing the little boy in her arms close, she combed fingers through his curls and seemed to contemplate an answer. Eyes hooded and peered down at her son for a long moment. Then, nudging him lightly, she coaxed him out of her lap. "Go see if Daddy's home, hm?"

The little boy nodded silently and scampered off into the next room. Left alone, Lani cracked a grin and smoothed hands over the tops of her legs. Shoulders turned up. "He was just... Charlie. I mean, he was my best friend. What's there to say about that?"

"Plenty!" She exclaimed. "What did he look like? What was his favorite band? How did you know him? Why did he leave town and why doesn't Lucy let anything be said about him? Why --" Words stilled with a hand quietly lifted to stop them.

Falling back against the couch, fingers flooded over her mouth. Lani adopted a far-away look as if memory required travel to be accessed. She was silent and debating. Aemilia could tell from the way that her mouth shifted. "Charlie was the best sort-of friend you could have. If there was anything that you ever needed, you know that he'd find a way to get it. He was loyal the way that people aren't anymore. And smart. Jesus, he was really smart. He could have done anything."

"But?"

"He had a tough time growing up. He didn't like to talk about it, didn't want to deal with it. It created a lot of conflict in him. I can't explain that part of Charlie. Maybe Lucy is the one you should talk to if you want to go there. All I know is that things were really great and I hoped everything could stay that way and then -- It just stopped. He did what he had to do and Lucy did too."

"But Holden --"

"Mimi..." Her voice cracked. Shifting back upright, she twisted in her seat and a hand smeared through the black shards of her hair. A band of tension ran between them. She could feel the static rise off her aunt. "Aemilia, we can't talk about this. I -- I can't. Look, if you're curious about our family then I can tell you anything. In fact, there's a box upstairs under my bed with pictures from when we were younger. They're thrown together but you can look through. I think there are some from when your parents first met, too. Probably nothing that you haven't seen before, but if you'd like to look through and laugh at my outfits then you can."

[secondhand_stars]

Bleary day. Steam lifted up from the subway and made the sidewalks seem alive. On either side of them, vendor carts were covered in plastic in anticipation of a stormy day. She reached out, her fingers skimming over the slippery folds. Merchandise spilled out of florescent lighted stores. It was fifth avenue's evil doppleganger. One could buy anything here. Stately Chanel bags with gold-plated C's stamped into quilted leather. Loud Versace. Cellphones with glittering covers. Goldfish flickering in a bowl full of turquoise rocks. They didn't come here for the retail, but the atmosphere and a small bookstore tucked away in the middle of all the chaos.

It amazed her how her father still caught his accidental attention. As they passed, women and men alike would pause to glance over. Time had ravaged him the most beneath the skin. That was what the population didn't see. Behind his haphazard fashion sense and olive skin was an ulcerated stomach that required constant soothing. His liver was bruised from years of abuse -- past and present -- and his nerves as fragile as glass. He was still lean, if not leaner with the most excessive and wild of his years behind him. Changes were subtle: Within his stubble and creeping up into sideburns, his hair slowly shifted to gray. Small lines folded at the corner of green eyes behind the glasses he wore constantly now. He reached out to take her hand in his. Against the warm shell of it, fingers folded easily in as if she were still a child.

In ways, she would always be. His only child. He loved her with a ferocity that inspired both awe and jealousy in turns. It was enough to send him into hysterics that none could have ever imagined. Whether it be her premature birth and the hospital red-tape that had threatened to separate them to the sight of a lanky teenaged boy sprawled across her. All things fell away for an unbroken calm now. Neither spoke, but breath was enough. Aemilia walked close to Michael, her head occasionally pressed to his shoulder.

[secondhand_stars]

Six years later, Paris.

With every light flicked on and the shades drawn up high, her flat had become a lighthouse. High above the winding streets shrouded in summer-green dripped trees, the world was represented in a ghostly trail of voices and the twinkle of street lamps. The radio was turned on high and from it a jazzy standard crooned out. The vocalizations and trumpet along with the voices were all unheard.

Her dining room table had been set for eight. Plates were stacked upon each other with forks and knives spread out on either side. The dishware was so thin that the most aged of the porcelain nearly shone translucent. Her silverware was a mismatch of antique silver. Like a doll?s set, the forks and spoons were so small an average adult?s hands would dwarf them.

In the kitchen, she sat on a stool at the head of a narrow kitchen island. The wooden top was a highway of cupcakes. In a checkerboard of white and chocolate cake, their domed tops sat in waiting. One by one, she layered them thick with a heavy whipped frosting.

From the open windows, humidity blazed through. It sent fallen strands of hair to curl around her neck and damply around temples. Even still, a heavily cabled cardigan hung off her narrow bones. She was an elegant mess: hair askew and knees poking out from the curved hem of her hiked up wrap-dress. Feet curved around the rung of the stool. In random spots, she was smudged with flour.

This wasn?t the scene of an evening before a dinner party. It wasn?t prior to an event or grand celebration. While the rest of Paris slept, Aemilia Prior laboured over mixing bowls and enamelled cookware. The muscles in her arms were ropy and lean muscled from her efforts to transform lumpy batters and sticks of heavy butter into something beautiful.

The sun began to outline the city in pink. From her window, the sky began to blanch and incorporate the same colours that were mixed into vats of buttercream. Sunset was outside and in, respectively. A bouquet of cupcakes now balanced high upon green frosted glass. She waited for them to settle before delivering them triumphantly to Maurice.

Maurice Hellman was a widower of ten years. Until recently, he had lived a quiet life across the hall from Aemilia. A friendship that spanned decades had been cultivated from accidental run-ins in the mailroom or coffee at side-by-side tables at the caf? across the street. Now, there were trips to be had in the park with his schnauzer, Jacques, and Tuesday night games of Gin Rummy. The latest development in their friendship was Maurice?s recent adoration of Glenda the Florist.

Nightly, Aemilia baked towering cakes and boxes of cookies. Daily, Maurice hobbled them over to where the flashy red haired woman doled out flowers and fresh fruit at the stand that her husband once ran. From her window, she watched him present the pastries with a flourish and tip of his hat. Glenda blushed magnificently in a way that made Aemilia feel her own face flush.

[secondhand_stars]

A Captain of Industry died today. As a result, the streets are humming at a pace a notch quieter than usual. Flags have been lowered to half-mast, as if he were a dignitary or some grand tragedy. The truth is that he is, in a way. After the war, his company helped rebuild the occupation-ravaged streets. Burnt out Cathedrals and crumbling stone homes were replaced with newer, more modern buildings in countries that are now other countries. Across the ocean, canals were built. He is not known for those things now. Instead, he is known for the tires that most drive on. His surname is etched in white across the black rubber.
Outside my window to the left is the French flag standing midway on its post and to the right is a larger than life-sized billboard of me. I dwarf the flagpole. It is the way of celebrity now, I suppose. The advertisement is for a bottle of perfume that makes me sneeze whenever I am around it. There?s too much pepper in the mix.

I am not a model. Or at least, that is not my calling. Back in New York, when I was younger, I appeared in citywide campaigns for my aunt?s fashion line. My picture was plastered on her storefronts in both the East Village and on 8th Avenue. I was eclipsed in advertisements and on minor catwalks. The clothes wore me. Then again, when you are sixteen, most everything does.

This is a recent development. My friend Louis is a fashion photographer and got me involved in this entire mess. Between who I am and what being me represents, it was a natural progression in the eyes of the investors and fashion house that has employed me. When I put on Gautier clothes, I feel like a Geisha. I am powered, plucked, and pressed to entertain. I don?t recognize the girl in the advertisement. Her skirt is too short and her face too made-up. Despite this, I?m pleased. When the ads hit the United States, my fathers ? Well, one of them ? will be amused. I hope that one is placed close to their home. That way, it is as if I am there looking down on them. It has been several years since I?ve been in the States. When asked if I?ll ever return, I say that I don?t believe I will.

I?m beginning to forget the language. English has become secondary. It?s a natural progression. I graduated from a French lycee, my father Harlen?s home is here in Paris, and so on. From the cradle, I?ve been coddled with French lullabies and fleur de lys. I can?t see New York. The skyline has become hazy with absenteeism. I don?t see sweeping avenues filled with carts and sidewalks brimming over with people. I see quaint cobbled roads and couriers upon motorbikes.

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ August 29, 2006 09:57 PM: Message edited by: perestroika ]</font>

[secondhand_stars]

Three years earlier, New York en route.

We met again in the airport. Over the scream of air conditioning and tourist chatter, I didn?t hear him call my name. It wasn?t until I was in the queue that he caught up with me. He had been chasing after me since I stepped out of the taxicab. He had been across the street. True to form, his flight was an incoming as mine was outbound. He was out of breath and pink from exertion. There was something different, but I couldn?t place it. I didn?t have time to think of it until it was too late.

I skipped my flight and arranged to board the next one, a red eye from Heathrow to JFK. An hour later, the two of us sat in an uncomfortable silence in the bar of the airport hotel. Both of us had a drink in hand, but only I drank. The whiskey smelled like an old rumpled businessman. I drank him up in harsh swallows. The runoff from the ice was a nice introduction to the ugly taste. We both spoke little and in hushed tones. I know now that we both had our reasons. I had yet to read lips well and my voice was nearing the wavering pitch it is now. He had been on testosterone for a year and a half and would have startled me with his first-unrecognizable tenor. Perhaps we had other things on our mind as well as plastic stir straws slowly rolled around respective drinks.

I didn?t bother to peel back the scratchy coverlet as I pushed him down onto the mattress. The springs crunched beneath him in an unclean sound. He folded easily, acquiescing to the fists that my hands made in his shirt and in his hair. It was an easy decline only marked once with resistance. He startled when my hands began to tug up his undershirt from the waistband of trousers. Rather than protest, he flashed wide eyes at me. Had I been younger or softer, I would have stopped. We would have likely curled beneath the sheets like siblings and watched a pay-per-view movie. Instead, I moved with intent. I didn?t want him. I wanted the myth of him.

Beneath cotton, two bands of scar tissue rose up from beneath his pectorals. It was fresh, perhaps only a few months old. It was ugly, too. The skin was fragile, but curled up in thick purpled vines. His nipples had a bruised, mangled appearance, too. They were budded, scabbed over, and reborn. I cringed openly until I remembered where I had seen something like this before. After that, my expression turned into a blank slate. I blinked and slid low onto his thighs. My hands fumbled with haste at his belt buckle and zips.

He stared at the ceiling as I uncovered him.

?Did you get this done, too??

?No need to,? he admitted through teeth.

?So,? I said. Words were muddied by a thousand variables. The boiler scream in my ears hit fever pitch and I cringed again, but for entirely different reasons. A hand pressed against one and fingers tugged at an earlobe. I must have looked so perturbed. ?Are you ? Were you, I mean? Were you born a girl? Biologically??

?It?s more complicated than that.?

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ August 29, 2006 10:02 PM: Message edited by: perestroika ]</font>

[secondhand_stars]

India, present day.

The village was a close-knit cluster of red clay buildings. There was very little break between the walls of the earthen homes and small shops and the street that they had been fashioned out of. In this respect, it was not entirely unlike New York. Concrete and glass grew up from the pavement in the same manner. The only difference was scale.

She lived in a small room at the rear of the hospital. It had been built decades before by a small charity. Built from aluminum siding and poured cement, it was an eyesore amongst the ruddy, earthen quality of the rest of the village. It was tucked into a patch of scraggly trees, but the patchy branchwork did little to ease the sharper details of the building. It was undeniably foreign, much like the pair of American tourists that had shown up one day in the director of the hospital's Jeep.

The villagers didn't know what to think of the pair with their fair skin and wide eyes. The boy had faired the worst. He was clammy and gaunt. His troubles had begun in Lhasa and extended past the borders. He survived though, rice bowl by rice bowl and with every trip to the lavatory. Both made themselves useful in unexpected ways. She set to work with small tasks and errands around the village. Large meals were churned out easily and with an efficiency that came from months-to-years of sleepless practice. From dawn to the slow decline of late afternoon, she moved from place to place. Her path always led back to the hospital and its communal dining room. It placed her nightly alongside the boy who had miraculously managed another day in construction. Aemilia found comfort in the repetitive quality of her daily tasks.


She was a curiosity, but most bluntly amongst the children. They would find her most often at the hospital on its back steps. There, she'd sit with the wings of her sweater tightly wrapped over ribs and stretched taut over the sleek slouch of her spine. They would gather, first in disinterested play and later gestural inquiry. Her language acquisition was slow. Words were always translated first with the flap of hands or point of fingers.

Behind her, a little girls would weave gnarls into her waved hair or reach out to touch the gold clasp of her necklace where it lay against bone. They chattered and tugged dark strands into something haphazardly fashionable in their eyes.

One day, A little boy crept up like an animal. Tiny sticky fingers had been made paws and toes were caked in dirt. He had a blocky, endearing quality to him. His head was much too big at first glance for his wiry shoulders and stooped spine. He snarled at her and his transformation was complete. A tiger. A ferocity. She picked at the hot vadai in her hands and tore crispy shell from its potato insides. It was held out in offering inside her palm.

His nose wrinkled with suspicion first and sensation second. He sniffed at the fried dough and crept closer. In a glint of teeth and low roar in his chest, he reached out and snatched the snack away. It was shoved into his mouth and a pleased grin crossed over his mouth. Aemilia had learned that play transcended language barriers. It was enough to draw simple pictures in the packed dirt beneath her, or to mimic. Her interaction with the village was largely a game of Simon Says. They commanded, she followed. This continued throughout the day whether it be with the children or the adults.

[secondhand_stars]

Her bedroom had been left as she had left it six years ago. There were still glass-eyed dolls shoved into shelves and faded prize ribbons dangling off the edge of a pushpin board. On a bookcase, squat crystal awards sat alongside slim towers and plaques. Gently worn books sat in alphabetized rows beneath. Records filled bottom shelves. Sheets were still satin and bubble gum pink. The view was the same sprawl of autumn gold and orange. Central park was on fire, even in the half-light of early morning. She sat on the edge of her bed, sleepless and still thrumming with decision. Faint bruises shadowed wrists and biceps from the scuffle earlier. It had been her fault with all her wrenching and insistent twisting. The chirp and wail of police sirens echoed stories below, but time lapsed and she found herself back. Images replayed. Folding forward, Aemilia buried her eyes into the heel of her palms.

Bathroom lights stung her eyes when they reopened. Pressing thumb and index fingers into tear ducts, she rubbed away the spots that blossomed in front of her. Skin crawled along the back of her neck and shoulders. Lifting a hand, fingers smoothed over the itch and bit pieces of hair fell away. Aemilia gasped and drew a hand back to inspect the pieces of hair that hung off fingertips. "Oh fuck," she murmured. "Unbelievable."

Mind caught up from its lag and eyes raced to connect the pieces. Scissors gleamed, legs spread eagle, up from the veined marble top of the sink. Gingerly plucking curling strands of hair from her shoulders, she let them fall again into the basin where hair overflowed. Hands clapped over her newly shorn hair and smeared down. She pressed the tips of her hair into scalp. The reflection wasn't a stranger, but instead someone very different. It was elfin in the point of her chin and how the tops of her ears peeked out from dark hair. The upturn of her nose was reassuring. It was not maternal, but completely paternal.

She recoiled from the sink and left hair to litter behind. The white tiled floor was now peppered in tiny snips and longer coils. A hand reached for the door, but its knob slipped beneath her grip. Stumbling back a step, she narrowly avoided collision with the lumbering steps of a groggy father.

Squinting through a myopic haze, Michael's eyes struggled to focus on Aemilia. He squinted deeper, as if to materialize more of her, to piece back what had been snipped away. After a fruitless moment, he sagged against the door and a hand smeared over his mouth. "Didn't wash that man out of your hair?"

She shrugged helplessly.

"Well," he said as he rounded her. Turning on the water, hands scooped up beneath the spray and splashed at cheeks. He grimaced at the matted hair that blocked the drain. "This is disgusting." He scooped out the dripping strands and tossed them into the garbage.

"Sorry," she croaked. "I -- I don't know why.."

"Well, at least you weren't trying to make yourself ugly," he said flatly as nails scratched against the grain of his scruffy cheeks. "Your dad is going to shit himself. You look exactly like --"

"I know," she interrupted. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Any of it?"

"No. I have more important things now," she murmured. "I need to find a job. An apartment. I can't live like this anymore. No wonder I'm so fucked up. I'm an absolute --"

"We can talk about this when you're settled."

Eyes widening at her father, she simply shook her head at him. It wasn't the sort of settling that she could stomach -- living back at home and wasting away in front of her father's piano. For the first time in her life, she was discontent and searching. Wrapping arms around her stomach, she silenced the churning that rolled beneath her skin. "Do I really look like her?"

Michael sighed and reached for the pair of glasses that sat next to the sink. He put them on, thumb nudging them higher up the bridge of his nose, and squinted at Aemilia for a long moment. She had shifted. The dark shading in her expression and sour cut of her mouth was a far cry from her initial reflection. He turned from her and lifted up the scissors from their sprawl. Fitting thumb and index finger into the holes, he snipped at the air. "No," he said with a twitch of his mouth. "You look like me. Now let me trim the back."

[secondhand_stars]

Seventeen years earlier.

Autumn swept over the campus like a sudden storm. In it's wake, leaves and wind-blown fliers littered the common square. Beneath, summer grass had grown scraggly and thin. Aemilia looked up and all trace of the pastoral receded back. Higher than trees and past the stately brick facade of the city locked university were the glass skyscrapers and white squiggle line of jets in transit.

Michael sat on a table several feet away. He bent over the concrete surface of it in conversation. The faint smoke cloud that drew out of two sets of moving mouths created a screen. She could not read his lips. Across the table, one of his students sat with his notebook open. A hand jotted down notes in a quick, shorthand. There was no time for complicated graphs or sentences. The subtle tension in his mouth and where vein lifted up from the line of his neck gave away his stress. Eyes were hollowed out from long nights in the library. His skin was like wax. In all, his appearance was similar to the oil painted poets that often decorated the backs of the protective sleeves that sweatered over hardcover books. It was a look that would become increasingly familiar as her awareness of her father's profession grew. For now, he was simply a big boy and student to the teacher.

Aemilia bounded up to the picnic table and crawled next to her father. He patted at the crooked braids that she had insisted on him knotting her hair into. Later, an aunt or her father would cluck and neatly part and plait curling brown hair into straight, symmetrical braids. For now, she was the ragamuffin child of a scholar who was just as askew in appearance. She latched onto his arm and peered at the paper cup that held his coffee. There was leak in the seam and an ugly brown stain had begun to bleed out.

"Wordsworth was a country poet. He thought that rural life and its simplicity was the closest route to authenticity. We return to the theme of nature being the closest route to god. This part of the Preface deals with how man has changed by industry and city. Depravity," he plucked the word from text and encircled in the quotation flicker of the first two fingers on either hand. "Wordsworth was concerned with the emergence of the gothic novel. He thought of it as an erosion of literate culture. Today, we have all sorts of things. Media violence --" Eyes slanted to Aemilia and hands pressed over her ears. "The openness of sexuality. See, look how I cover her ears. Depravity."

Aemilia giggled and batted at his hands. Her round green eyes were wide and set on the student. For once, there was a reversal. The shy girl was suddenly the one who inspired the stranger to squirm and avoid eye contact. Relishing the subtle power over the adult, she leaned over far and stared at his notes. She couldn't read the words on the page yet.

"--Wordsworth is asking. Can we take all of this? The vastness of the city. The people."

"Papa," Aemilia chirped. Her arms wrapped around Michael's neck and she tugged hard. Giggling, she pressed her face into his warm skin. Her eyes crept along the sharp angles of his features and searched for a matching set of eyes. "Papa, when I go to school, everyone will know my name!"

Michael fumbled at her sudden philosophical discovery. He ticked a finger at the rosy curve of her cheek. Nose buried into her hair and arms found themselves wrapped tightly around her. She folded easily into his lap and waited for him to agree. Instead, he was characteristically silent. Eyes ticked between the pair. Now, the student waited for his teacher to weave this brief anecdote into his lecture.

"Right?" She was silent a moment. Head knocked impatiently against his neck. Her expression faltered in its smug awareness. She was no longer so certain, but the grip on his neck was. "--Right?"