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“It’s you,” I said. “I don’t want to leave you.” “Me?” I nodded. “You want me?” I giggled at his bewildered expression. “That’s what I’m saying.” He paused a moment. “How—But—What did I do?” “I don’t know,” I said with a shrug. “I just think that we’d be a good us.” He smiled slowly. “We’d be a wonderful us.”
“Don’t worry,” I assured her. “We’re going to win.” She laughed nervously. “How can you be so sure?” “Because,” I said decisively, “there’s no way I’m letting Celeste do better than me.”
The best way to describe the Italian ladies was statuesque. They were tall, golden skinned, and absolutely beautiful. As if that wasn’t enough, they were all so good-natured. It was like they carried the sun inside their souls and let it shine out on everything around them.
“I have this feeling that things have gotten better than they were, though I honestly don’t know enough about our history to prove that. And I have this feeling that things will get even better in the future. I think that there are possibilities. “And maybe this is silly, but it’s my country. I get that it’s broken, but that doesn’t mean these anarchists can just come and take it. It’s still mine. Does that sound crazy?”
Somehow he’d convinced himself that by keeping everyone around him oppressed and quiet, he was doing us all a favor. How was it a blessing to be forced to live in a corner of society? How was it good that there were limits for everyone in Illéa but him?
