I know May told me his father had crushed all the soft things about him long ago. But I don’t think that’s true. I think he just became an expert at hiding it. He is soft. In ways you wouldn’t expect. He’s soft in the mornings, just before he’s had his coffee and his gaze is still sleepy. That’s when he picks out which mugs we’re drinking from that day, and somehow, he always makes sure they go together. Soft when he cooks us dinner, and even more so when he’s annotating my books. He couldn’t be anything but that.
