Michael’s looking at Wolfgang again now. Some of the unnatural light catches in the back of his eyes, dimly hinting at a reflection of greenish-yellow. He tilts his head, trying to see behind the curtain of blonde, attempting to divine what they’re thinking, but it’s hard. He hopes what he said was alright. It should have been, he thinks, but he can never trust himself about these things.
It’s so quiet in the shop. The only sounds are the unstoppable background noises of urban and human life: pipes, electricity, ventilation, breathing, heartbeats. It’s so strange to feel and hear Wolfgang’s heart at the same time. Strange like when they touch the shadows. Strange like when his tongue is in their mouth. He can’t keep doing it. He has to say something, make another noise to cover it up.
“Did someone tell you it was stupid?” he says. “It’s not stupid. They’re stupid.”