And he falls silent.
Waiting for my response?
“That’s good,” I say, “because I don’t want to share you either.”
He smiles and sits back, sipping his wine, his expression thoughtful.
“Tell me about ‘redbreast’ and ‘ravens’,” he says. “I expected you to simply give me ‘yellow’ and ‘red’ or something similar. It sounds as though there is a story behind the two words.”
“It’s from when I was a little girl,” I say. “There were ravens at the bottom of our garden, and when I was small, they seemed so huge.”
“You were frightened of them?”
“Yes. They felt like monsters from some fairy tale to me.”
“And redbreast?”
“The other bird I always saw in the garden was a robin. He used to follow my father around when he was digging the ground. Dad would toss worms and leather-jackets to him. He was a friendly little thing. I loved him, and I always put out food and water for him in the winter. He was a sort of childhood friend.”
Ryan nods. “Nice story.” he smiles.