XIX

LATE MORNING—

I watched him lace his boots in that cute way that he has: across and across rather than letting the laces crisscross over each other. It requires skill that way, he told me, and concentration. His forehead crinkled in childlike frustration as he tried to show me, and then his eyes lit up with satisfaction when he was finished.

I marveled once again at how he’s changing. He doesn’t hang out with the other Manatees as much—he says they don’t understand him anymore. He seems quieter now, more introspective. He doesn’t talk in that tough-guy wigger way as much anymore. (Although it did return in full effect last night, when he was drunk, huh?)

 

He acts increasingly protective toward me. Dare I say tender? When we’re together at night, he jokingly refers to me as his bitch. Isn’t that sweet? In private he tells me I’m the best friend he’s ever had. Sometimes he holds my hand when we are out walking in the gardens, and that just makes my LIVER QUIVER, I’ll tell you THAT.