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Summary
“Don’t touch those, Rumi.”
Celine didn’t look away from the onions she was chopping.
Rumi froze, her hand wrapped around her upper arm. She jerked her hand away like she was about to put her hand down on top of a snake she hadn’t seen. “Why?”
Why’s and how’s drove Rumi’s world. If she understood the function of each gear, she’d know what the machine was supposed to look like when it came together.
“Because,” Celine responded, tone clipped. Her jaw was working, something Rumi had recently discovered to mean that she was angry. “Because it’s wrong. You’re not even supposed to have those.”
Rumi tugged the sleeve of her shirt down further. “Oh.”
A foundational gear of how the world worked was cataloged in her mind.
Don’t touch your patterns, they’re dirty.
Or, Rumi is incredibly repressed because of the shame she feels about her patterns.
Series
- Part 1 of Touch