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and she must stifle her smile at the sight. He says something that she cannot entirely understand -- the accent is thick, the dialect not familiar -- but there are a few commonalities with the language she learned in college. Something about food, something about being welcome. Thank you, she smiles at him. It's all right, she says to her companion. He says we can join him for dinner. Or we're his dinner, he mutters. She shoots him one of her well-practiced looks of disappointment and edges closer to the stranger. Placing a hand on her chest, she gives her name. The stranger looks at her, and for the first time good humor flickers in his eyes. He begins talking, and he does not stop. His face  |
remains the same, his eyes remain fixed on her, but the mouth yaws open and grimaces and pronounces words with a will of its own. Her head hurts from the effort of trying to under- stand, and she tries to interrupt, Please, not so fast, I'm afraid I'm not so good -- And the stranger will not stop. This isn't good, her companion says. Let's turn around -- The stranger is moving closer, enunciating clearly, it is amazing how his focus is so indomitable, the stick still in his hand. Her companion stumbles forward, interposing himself between the stranger and her, not at all heroic but supportive at least, yelling out in his own tongue: Hey, keep away from her!  |
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