Fugue #90

Paul lays back, too, staring at the clouds, trying to think of quotes from poems - ones that Gene had showed him - to reel his brother back.

And Memory [capital M, Pushkin used a capital M] before my wakeful eyesWith noiseless hand unwinds her lengthy scroll.

Minutes pass. Gene sits up and looks at Paul, who shades his eyes with his right hand, smiles, then sits up. They sit, side by side, quiet, until Paul says...

- Hey, look at that. That oak tree, over there. A leaf just fell, like it was dancing down to the ground, back and forth, up down up - like a butterfly, almost. It’s weird that something dead could remind you of something so alive.
- Let’s not get poetic, ok?
- Gene, that’s it. I talk the way I talk. I thought of something, and thought I’d share it with you to cheer you up. What’s so wrong with that?
- Nothing. Just like there’s nothing wrong with me saying it’s too much, it’s indecent.
- What’s decent then? Cussing? I’ll shut up, and you can shut up. Or we might really end up fighting.
- Oh please, let’s fight. Really fight, instead of dancing around with all these words like your little leaf.
- Somebody would get hurt, ha.
- So what. Here, out here in the fields? It’s perfect. Nobody would see us, and it wouldn’t really matter when I beat your ass.

Paul turns to Gene to shove him in jest, but Gene’s face is different. More earnest, more pained, more threatening.