Nothing Honeyboy says is worthy of any acknowledgement, not really. It’s mostly stupid observations about his surroundings, dumb things kids usually note about the planet. Wow. Airplane? Bunny haveTWO ears. It makes Absalom happy, though. That mushy liquidated brain of Honeyboy’s is so easy to mold to religious conversion.
So he doesn’t think he’s really losing any vital information when he’s interrupted.
Pulling back the sheets and pulling on a robe, he opens the door and stares at the worn face of Miss White, her skin engraved with years of age, looking weary but not surprised by the state of their relations, the smell of sex pluming warm in the uncirculated room.
“Thought you were at the market.”
“No, sir. Breakfast is ready, Mister Caravos. Come down when you’re ready.”
He closes the door with a dismissive nod and turns to Honeyboy, cocking an eyebrow. “Who taught you how to lie?”
Honeyboy was internally thanking who or whatever created the human race for not including tails because at this moment in time, he was pretty sure if he had one it’d be between his legs. He avoided eye contact with Absalom as he turned to scold him.
He looked like a dog who’s rummaged through the trashcan for the chicken carcass from the night before and left a trail of various other leftovers along the ground in search for what he was looking for.
“Honeyboy does not understand.” But he does. He’s trying to pull the ‘but i’m an alien, you cant yell at me, card.’ He’s not too sure it’ll work on Absalom though.
Laying back on the bed, long limbs sprawling out over the satin sheets. “What is Absalom talking about? Honeyboy doesn’t---” and he changes the subject, “Come back to bed.”
snowghoul
theartofmadeline
germansingergirl
yousharknotpass
turnnoffyourmind
areudirty
titsay
tangentwithtanner
romaincrisis
