Harold
closed his mouth over the proffered thumb, tasting sugar, corned
beef, banana custard, strawberry jam. He belatedly wondered how clean
the thumb had been beneath it. Teenage boys weren't generally known
for their adherence to a washing regime.
“You can
take in more than that.”
Harold
opened his eyes. It was odd to be propositioned by a teenager. “How
old are you, again?”
“Fifteen,
but this is the first time I've been fifteen. Why?”
“It might be considered inappropriate for a grown man to be sucking off a fifteen year old boy.” Harold frowned. “From, I meant. Sucking from.”
“Why? In
Galilee a man generally marries as soon as he is twelve or thirteen.
I would be considered old.”
Harold let
go of the thumb and Jared began to lick the concoction from the
remaining two fingers. “If you'd be considered old, how would they
consider me?”
Jared
studied him, his dark eyes glittering over his curled fingers. “Dead,
probably. Ancient at the very least, though there were always older
people in the temples. Perhaps you would have been rich. That would
bring you a longer expectation of life. Better food, better
sanitation. A house away from the disease-ridden hovels of the poor.”
“It's not
so different now.” Harold took a step back. He was, after all, a
happily married man. Well, not actually married. Gillian had a
problem with the concept of matrimony which stemmed from her ideals
prior to death, ideals which precluded the words 'I do' in any formal
agreement. “The rich have a better standard of living, better food,
houses, healthcare. That sort of thing.”
“While the
poor still suffer?”
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