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prose!
'It's cold.'
'But you're wearing your coat. And mine. And a scarf.'
'Not a good scarf.' She looked at him sideways, bluely. 'I could knit a better scarf than this.'
'I'm sure you could,' he replied, bewildered out of words, and turned his head to the right where a fall of snow had transformed the hills into gigantic slopes of sparkling sugar.
'Started knitting one once,' she continued, her voice a little choked by the cold, 'a green one, then I ran out of green so it turned orange, then I kept dropping stitches...so in the end it was less of a scarf and more of a...green, orange triangle. Of wool.'
'Hmm,' he said, and wondered if she would mind much if he slipped his hand into hers, and then realised that no, she was wearing large aubergine-coloured gloves, and the gesture was robbed of its romanticism. Put your woolly hand in mine. His fingers, at least, were cold. They flexed. Crunch went the snow.
'It's cold.'
'But you're wearing your coat. And mine. And a scarf.'
'Not a good scarf.' She looked at him sideways, bluely. 'I could knit a better scarf than this.'
'I'm sure you could,' he replied, bewildered out of words, and turned his head to the right where a fall of snow had transformed the hills into gigantic slopes of sparkling sugar.
'Started knitting one once,' she continued, her voice a little choked by the cold, 'a green one, then I ran out of green so it turned orange, then I kept dropping stitches...so in the end it was less of a scarf and more of a...green, orange triangle. Of wool.'
'Hmm,' he said, and wondered if she would mind much if he slipped his hand into hers, and then realised that no, she was wearing large aubergine-coloured gloves, and the gesture was robbed of its romanticism. Put your woolly hand in mine. His fingers, at least, were cold. They flexed. Crunch went the snow.
Cambridge Writers' Guild - The Wall
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