Читать книгу Tiny - Mairead Case - Страница 9

14

T I N Y

It is dark. Tiny sits on the roof with her hand in front of her face. She can’t see her hand, which is also her mother’s hand. Their nails are painted green. Green for money, for growth without pain, even though Tiny doesn’t really mind being hurt. She knows it’s temporary, like the cold right after jumping into a lake, and even when the pain is everywhere. But every color stands for something, whether people understand it the same way or not, and that is comforting. It connects. Tiny painted her nails herself. She runs her palms up and down her thighs, to warm them and brush away wet grass.

It is windy, and though Tiny can’t see that either, she can see the slick flickering over everything and hear the wind in the maples. This city is always raining, or between rain, except for two weeks in August when everything is a clear, firm-edged blue. Every few years, July is like that too, and then everyone talks about it. About how remarkable that is. It is remarkable for everyone to feel the same sun on the same day. Everyone has the same warmth on their faces. On other days, the light in Tiny’s city bathes everything in vinegar, like it’s a print ready to be soaked and rewound. People who think talking about the weather is boring have never had to be out in it together.

Tiny slides her right hand into her shirt so that she can feel the bones in her chest. She cups the tissue and slides her thumb across the place where ribs branch from