Daryl smiles for that, though it's awkward, lop-sided. What a strange world they've built, on the back of the new, that the insult that haunted his childhood no longer have any meaning.
"White trash-- poor folk-- that work in the sun," Daryl says, and reaches toward the back of his neck, tilting his head forward, "gets certain tans."
Of course, he doesn't have that tan anymore. He's lived too long in cloudy Seattle, buttoned up against the cold, his hair long. He reckons he's lost his farmer's tan, but he hasn't looked at anything but his face in a dinky shaving mirror for years. "Back before, you could tell... my accent, my fuckin' name. Didn't come from nothing, probably an addict. Weren't raised right. Hick, hillbilly."
He shrugs. It's all ancient history now, covered over in thirty years of death and mud. It'd still hurt his soft underbelly, if someone said it with real intent, but Abby doesn't know any of this shit.
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"White trash-- poor folk-- that work in the sun," Daryl says, and reaches toward the back of his neck, tilting his head forward, "gets certain tans."
Of course, he doesn't have that tan anymore. He's lived too long in cloudy Seattle, buttoned up against the cold, his hair long. He reckons he's lost his farmer's tan, but he hasn't looked at anything but his face in a dinky shaving mirror for years. "Back before, you could tell... my accent, my fuckin' name. Didn't come from nothing, probably an addict. Weren't raised right. Hick, hillbilly."
He shrugs. It's all ancient history now, covered over in thirty years of death and mud. It'd still hurt his soft underbelly, if someone said it with real intent, but Abby doesn't know any of this shit.