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Her knitting needles rested in a leather pouch in pairs, two matching sticks of wood, side by side like the delicate bones of the wrist wrapped in dried and ancient flesh.
She and Marnes seemed to be spiraling around one another, testing the memory of old attractions, probing the tenderness of ancient scars, looking for some soft spot that remained among brittle and broken bodies, across wrinkled and dried-paper skin, and within hearts callused by law and politics.
His impatience for sleep often frightened that very sleep away.
It turned out that some crooked things looked even worse when straightened. Some tangled knots only made sense once unraveled.
