" "That wasn't funny." "That wasn't funny." She pouted. "I wasn't laughing at you, Furry. Here, let me take a shot." They played back and forth for a while, Jofuran losing. "Show me how to do that again," she asked. "Okay," he said, stepping behind her and putting his left hand on hers. "Hold your hand like this." He held his hand in a standard bridge, "And aim along here. Now, you want to think about your shot standing up, as if you were looking over the table." "I'm kind of short for that," Jofuran replied. "I know. But you have to think that way. Now, you want to grip the stick here," he continued, taking her other hand. He felt extremely close to her; he could smell her clean fur, feel the warmth of her body through his clothing. "Okay," he said, a little less steadily, "now lean over and take the shot. Line up on the ball, just like that, and stroke, once, real easily." She took the shot as he directed her, hitting the cue squarely and smoothly. "Better," he said. Jofuran straightened up and nearly knocked him over. "Whoops!" She whipped around and caught him by the collar, pulling him back up. "Thanks," he said, more than a little surprised by the speed of her reaction. He had never seen anyone move that fast, except maybe at martial arts demonstrations. She pulled him close and hugged him. Nickolai's back stiffened. "What?" "I just wanted to thank you, Kolya. You've been so nice to me." He pushed her back and held her at arms' length. "Really?" She swallowed for a second and said, "Kolya, I'm never going back to Terra. My folks moved there when I was six, and now I'm sixteen and I'm going home. To my real home. To Pendor. Because all the time I lived on Terra I was made to feel like, well, like I was different. And I was; I was the only Markal in all of Jerusalem. I mean, there aren't maybe a dozen _humans_ in the old city who spoke both Anglic and Ashkenazic, but I can. I can read heiroglyphics, Kolya. I went home... think about what that means. |