T H O M A S I N
The markets were always spritely with an assortment of festivities. Music played in the streets: a mandolin, a tambourine, the jingling of anklets and golden jewelry keeping time against the dancers' skins. It was always a sight to behold, the merriment and mystery that only Denocte could provide. Thomasin tried her best to keep her attention focused on her work, but it was so hard when the dancing and gayety looked so inviting. As she damped the coals in her little oven, she pulled the last of her batches out and set them to cool – a small assortment of winter-fruit tartlets and a root-vegetable pie.
The tiny creature blinked her big, pewter eyes in wonder at the women who danced. How she wished she could move like them, like liquid, spilling into the night under their sheer satin sashes, keeping the cold at bay with their warm smiles and playful sashays. But alas she stood on the sidelines, a wall flower, watching them with awe. One of them winked at Thomasin.
She stiffened and blushed immediately, tearing away her gaze and nervously dusting the soot and flour off of her. Despite how hard she would try, she would never fully rid her knees and chest of flour – like an artists’ glitter or paint, if she was baking, she would be decorated with the dusty powder.
With a flutter her duo-toned lashes and a toss of her umber braid, the lamb scurried to her neighboring stall, hoping to distract herself from the temptation of joining in a dance. She gave a small nod to the tea maker – they had a silent but brief exchange, as it was in Thomasin’s nature to come over every night and offer left over pastries. In routine, she knew they would want some goodies, and Thomasin was happy to oblige. Thomasin never made breads or sweets for the money, she didn’t really care for the coin – she was born to serve others, in the humblest of ways. It pleased her to watch patrons bite into fluffy, warm nuggets of savory or sweet goods. They typically melted, and that satisfaction was what Thomasin thrived on.
The mousy mare turned her head, prepared to return to her stall before catching a glimpse of a stranger seated. They sipped their tea, quiet, perhaps thoughtful. Thomasin couldn’t help but envy the way their skin danced, mimicking the entertainers and the stars in the sky – a milky and delightful display of ink and honey swirling into faux galaxies on the contours of their body. She tilted her head up slightly, shifting her body away from the stranger – in case they might noticed her beating heart. But she was distracted by the tea in the air, and the smell of mint on his skin. It was like a breath of fresh air, her own dulce skin was earthy and slightly spicy – like black chai.
Curious creature she was, she approached the stranger. Perhaps he was a dancer one of the dancers taking a break? He sure looked the part. “Might I offer you something to eat with your tea?” Her tender, quiet voice found its way out of her pink mouth, and the corners of her lips curled into a soft, yet sheepish smile. “I’m sure I can find something to pair with it, and I am trying to get rid of the leftovers after todays’ sales. I’m not one for waste.”
It was not in her nature to be so bold and go out of her way to start conversation. To be honest, she just wanted an excuse to get a little closer, to look at him just a little longer.
"talking."
tagged: @Alecto c:
im feeling some of this ~ : X
