I HOPE YOU WILL TAKE IT, AND REMEMBER ON EARTH
I did not know how to touch it it was all so raw, / and if by chance there is no edge to the crowd / or anything else so that I am of it, / I will take the orange and toss it as high as I can.
My sip goes down easily enough, though I very nearly gag on the aftertaste; most of it is wonderful, with a carbonated fizziness and a ice-borne chill that wipes away some measure of the desert heat that has plagued me since my arrival. It is sharp and minty and wonderfully crisp, but it leaves the lingering taste of something in my mouth. I don’t know what charcoal tastes like, but it tastes, faintly, like charcoal smells.
The clash of tastes is – bizarre, to say the least. It is all that I can do to remain composed, to not wrinkle my nose or grimace. (I sip at it again anyways. Maybe it’s an acquired taste?)
To my relief, in spite of my babbling, the man smiles at me. Gently, even. Warmly. I smile back, easily, relieved. Nothing is inappropriate to say to the help here, he says, and my smile threatens to falter by fractions at the edges; a hint of something like confusion threatens to work its way into my brow. That seems rude. And unusual. There are always things that are inappropriate to say to people, regardless of their occupation.
That is how it is at home, anyways. A farmer could have just as easily been the ruler of our kingdom in his past life. I have to remind myself, quickly, that outsiders do not necessarily think the same way.
(It makes the drink taste a bit more bitter on my tongue.)
He takes a drink himself, then informs me that the half-pattern is an artistic statement – or something. Above his pay grade, he says, and I nod, trying to figure out what sort of artistic statement could be intended by painting only half of the man. My mind draws a harsh blank. His coat is rich brown, but rather dark, and the paint is gold; perhaps it is because so many of the designs resemble celestial bodies, and, offsetting them against the dark of his coat makes their luminous qualities all the more obvious.
I am no artist – I have only ever trained with a blade. I don’t know what to make of it at all.
When he prances about in front of me, circling like a stalking cat, I have to smother the urge to giggle. It doesn’t much suit him, I think, the grandstanding – or maybe he just isn’t sure how to do it. I am not sure that he is the grandstanding type. He asks me, with a glint of mischief in his eyes, if I like the designs, and I dip my head, a thin veil of chestnut hair falling into my face; I brush it out of the way quickly.
“I do,” I say, watching the light glint off his coat and illuminate all of those strange, wonderful patterns, “although I’ll admit…I don’t know what all of the designs are supposed to be.” I tilt my head at him, still smiling broadly, and add, before I can think better of it, “I think the rest of you looks nice, too – you remind me of the trees, back in my homeland.” It’s certainly true; his coat is reminiscent of wood, shaved of bark, and of ancient trees, of the maples and the oaks, and, best of all, the sweet-scented black walnut.
I used to go and collect the fallen walnuts with my grandmother. The memory is faded, stained, blurred out-of-focus; but it still lingers, in the back of my mind.
Regardless – that is to say, there is a certain loveliness to it. A simple one. Maybe an unnoticeable one. (Maybe those are the most precious kind.)
My comment doesn’t quite strike me as odd until I’ve said it aloud; and, even then, I’m not sure that I could have kept it in.
(It seems I’m having a rather difficult time keeping my mouth shut.)
@
"Speech!"
EVERYTHING IS RISK, SHE WHISPERED.if you doubt, it becomes sand trickling through skeletal fingers.☙❧please tag Nic! contact is encouraged, short of violence
