He had a wide serious mouth with strong teeth.
His eyebrows and hair were black. His eyes were large and dark brown
with lids that slanted slightly across the corners. Women looked at him
and were puzzled by something that was different. He almost never got
into it.
"Oliver Muni Prescott," he had told a few. "Owl Prescott was my
stepfather. My father is Japanese--Muni, his name is--I never met him."
The toast popped up. Oliver buttered it and laid on marmalade. He put
the toast and tea on a tray and carried it upstairs. His mattress was
on the floor next to a window set low in the wall, under the eaves. He
lay down, munched toast, and watched the snow falling and blowing. When
he turned his head, the window was like a skylight. Mother is coming,
he remembered. The image of his mother with her flamboyant blonde hair
was replaced immediately by that of Francesca--quiet, natural, and no
less forceful.
He finished the toast and held the mug of tea on his chest with both
hands. He could see Francesca's eyes in front of him. They were asking
something, and he was answering. Her question was more complicated than
he had thought at Becky's Diner. Were they the same? Was she beautiful?
Was he for real? He relaxed and aligned in her direction.
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