Peanuts

I challenge you to a game of peanuts,

palm to palm we start, fingers locked

and who will twist, who will bend,

who will break first?

 

I challenge you to a game of chess,

mind to mind we sit, fingers twitching

and who will lead, who will block,

who will fall first?

 

I challenge you to a game of codes,

eye to eye we stand, fingers drumming,

and who will seek, who will find,

who will crack first?

 

I challenge you to a game of words,

toe to toe we begin, fingers pointing,

and who will blabber, who will stumble,

who will cry out first?

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In the study

I can tell by the worn tips of your fingers that you are no stranger to disciplined needlework.

You walk through a graveyard on your way to work, too. The slight smudge of clay soil on your boots, you see.

The only patch of earth between your boarding house and the factory where you are employed. Quick when one is late, I imagine.

Yes, I think you are often late. You arrived here two minutes late, with a flush to your cheeks. You wear no corset, your movements are too free. Easy to hasten. A common practice.

No, I haven’t been following you. I’m simply reading.

Now to the case at hand.