[ Jordan doesn't mind crowds. He doesn't mind solitude either, having had healthy doses of each on the commune back home — 125 acres of fields bordered with trees and hills and clustered at the foot of the biggest hill of them all, 36 people living in a house originally meant for a dozen at best. It's a juxtaposition he misses sometimes — big world, little world. Microcosm macrocosm. Here, in the projects with Circe, there isn't large and small, there's small and smaller. But Jordan's not the time to look a gifthorse in the mouth, even when the horse comes with the kind of fine print that Circe and her offered meal had (he knew the allusion).
He's sauntering around the perimeter of the courtyard when she settles down onto her bench. It takes him a while to reach her in his latest circuit, his hands shoved deep into the pocket of his slacks and his head bobbing lazily from side to side as if listening to unheard music. ]
What's the word, hummingbird? [ he asks on approach, lifting up to pull the fedora off the top of his head in something of a nod of acknowledgment. ]
no subject
He's sauntering around the perimeter of the courtyard when she settles down onto her bench. It takes him a while to reach her in his latest circuit, his hands shoved deep into the pocket of his slacks and his head bobbing lazily from side to side as if listening to unheard music. ]
What's the word, hummingbird? [ he asks on approach, lifting up to pull the fedora off the top of his head in something of a nod of acknowledgment. ]