the stars

ii.

he was sitting at breakfast one morning when his mother drank her tea and his father read the newspaper.

they were quiet, as usual, spending the time they did in thought of spending it wisely, when except, the walls in the house begged for mere whispers.

gus looked at his parents, studied them individually and this, you would assume, was his daily intake.

his father wore glasses; rectangular ones that made his face look more square, rather than circular. the dips under his eyes appeared unattended to, and the tie around his neck seemed as though it were a little tight.

aside him, his mother sported a low bun almost everyday, followed by pale skin dispersed in freckles on the bridge of her nose and forearms, and eyes possibly too blue to mention, but alas their beauty remained unspoken of, so he did the favour.

he stared at his mother's skin. he stared at the freckles. the freckles reminded him of the stars. the skin was the sky, and the freckles were the stars. he admired it.

he wanted to touch it, and as weary as it may of seemed, there was nothing that gus would let come in the way of this most utmost pulchritude.

he reached over the table and let his fingers slink over the surface of her arm. it felt quite fascinating. it felt like he was actually touching the stars with his own chubby hands. like he had the entire universe in the palm of his hand, and the masterwork right beneath his fingers. she looked down at him and asked, "what's wrong, gus?"

and he didn't know what to say. what could he say? so he managed to do the only thing he could think of doing.

he took his hand away.