“A pretty speech,” he says.
She smiles sadly, conscious how he echoes her. She is at the table again, standing behind him. She touches his neck, solicitously, just a touch. “Take your son back,” she whispers, “A mother could not stand such pain, a little girl such confusion. All will be well. I feel this ardently.”
He looks up at her again. “With you all is a burning,” he says.
She shakes her head, uncomprehending.
“Everything is ardent,” he explains.
Suddenly this is true. Her whole flesh burns, face and arms, crescent of the breastbone burns crimson, and she shudders within, up on her toes a bit, angry with herself, flushed and trembling with embarrassment.
It is an over-reaction. He wants to console her, take her in his arms and tell her it is only a word and he a jake. A whole forest of ardent.