MumbleHis speech must be hard work: filing down the sharp edges of words, gluing them end to end into a necklace of soft smooth beads. The rest of us jerk through our sentences: start and stop like a student driver. Our syllables drop from our mouths like building blocks. When he speaks, I watch the changing window of his lips for the secret: something foreign and gooey, or perhaps a tongue so large it crowds the entire cave of his mouth, but the lips never open more than a sliver: flashing pink landscape, fluid and curvy soft: a perfect place for hiding things.  |
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