[P] liebesleid

[Mesnyi]

"Often one writes 'execution' and pronounces it 'song.'"

Mesnyi laughs at the drama of his reaction, the over-reaction, the flash of black-white-white-black. It’s true: they are both very good actors, and it is a greater shame than either of them can know. Or perhaps they do know. What does it matter, anyway, if you do not intend to change? 
“Is that a true story?” he asks, and she is composing an answer when he continues, “You’ve lived quite the life, it sounds like. How do you find the time?” And when he says “time” she hears “not enough,” so all she says is, ”Sacrifices were made,” like it’s a joke, like it isn’t true, like this all came about as the natural way of things and not the outrunning of all fears, beginning at dawn and ending at dusk, when there is distraction and lovemaking to do the running for her. Mesnyi listens intently to his short, short story, and he brings her a book. “We aren’t known for our humility.”

”Ah!” she exclaims, ”Neither am I. How perfect.” She takes the book from him and skims the table of contents. ”A maker,” she repeats. Her gaze flicks up to him like it means to leave, but it sits intently at the reading table. ”I may be ashamed to admit I envy such artisans. My trades are not of the making kind. I can paint but it’s - you know - not smithing. And I suppose we must all look up to the masters like gods.” She shuts the book and swallows. When she looks at him again, she is not smiling, and something about her stare suggests she is peeling back his barriers like skin from a potato. She is not. She thinks only of herself at the best of times, which is why she says, ”I’d like to see your work sometime. And you should see me perform. I’ll be around. Everywhere.” She pauses. ”Our lack of humility grows from being rewarded more often than not, wouldn’t you say?”

"Speaking."

@Hugo

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