The vibrancy of coffee shops. Never as quiet as their exteriors suggested with their wide picture windows framing quietly bowed heads. Inside: the clatter of spoons against saucers and cups, hushed voices that coiled around each other and built into a whispered din, the violent whine of the machines behind the counter as they filtered and frothed, steamed, and foamed.
Sunlight poured through cathedral windows and split into shafts of green, red, and purple that slanted across the table where she sat, a Djarum black pouring its incense in upward drafts, the smoke spiteful against her throat. Sab hadn?t remembered the way such sweet smelling smoke could sting. Flat upon the table lay a three-quarters profile in glossy black and white. Her thumb drummed against the monochrome ridge of a cheekbone then stroked the length of one long, white dreadlock, thoughtful.
When the barista arrived, her thigh nudged against the table as she set down the espresso. Sab read the nametag: Mary. It?d been other things before. Their eyes exchanged pleasantries their mouths would not, and after a moment she gestured to the empty bench across from her.
Mary sat, brushing at a black flyaway curling over her ear. ?I haven?t seen you in awhile.?
?There wasn?t anything to see for a long while.? Sab pushed the saucer and cup aside, palm curled loosely over the face in the photo.
?And now?? The girl?s chin declined to the photo.
?We?ll see. Do you know her?? They might be similar in age, but that was always an iffy prospect in RhyDin. Sab anticipated the shake of head that followed.
?Don?t worry about it, then.?
Mary leaned skinny elbows on the table?still pretty, if pale?her thin fingers turning the picture to face her, a closer study as if to memorize. ?She?s got a kind of look.? There was an affected detachment to her voice; the eyes that flicked up to the flint chips of Sab?s were far more involved. ?Listen...are we square??
Sab laughed the low, rich bordello laugh she?d forgotten she owned, surprised that it still carried its resonance. Mary flinched as if its peals had physically lashed her. ?If we weren?t, you would have known long before. Like I said, don?t worry about it.?
?It?s just--? Mary?s denim-clad knees brushed against a buttery leather thigh as two fingertips landed atop Sab?s wrist. She couldn?t recall Mary being so bold, but then she?d been away for awhile.
?Your hands are freezing,? the girl spoke sotto voce.
Sab turned her palm to capture those fingers and berate them with the clasp of her own, thumb feathering across a pale wrist. Once she might have taken note or felt a spark of interest. In Mary, in the tailored suit across the way?even, perhaps, in the bus boy, with his sheaf of dark hair falling over a charmingly unrefined face. Now she only felt the texture of the girl?s skin, the youth in it, and beneath, the hum of her pulse. Still human, after all. That pleased her.
There were a thousand ways she could have replied to the girl. She released her fingers, setting the edge of her smile right against the girl?s cheek. ?I?m a mausoleum, darling.?
It was a brand of truth she?d come to accept.
Sunlight poured through cathedral windows and split into shafts of green, red, and purple that slanted across the table where she sat, a Djarum black pouring its incense in upward drafts, the smoke spiteful against her throat. Sab hadn?t remembered the way such sweet smelling smoke could sting. Flat upon the table lay a three-quarters profile in glossy black and white. Her thumb drummed against the monochrome ridge of a cheekbone then stroked the length of one long, white dreadlock, thoughtful.
When the barista arrived, her thigh nudged against the table as she set down the espresso. Sab read the nametag: Mary. It?d been other things before. Their eyes exchanged pleasantries their mouths would not, and after a moment she gestured to the empty bench across from her.
Mary sat, brushing at a black flyaway curling over her ear. ?I haven?t seen you in awhile.?
?There wasn?t anything to see for a long while.? Sab pushed the saucer and cup aside, palm curled loosely over the face in the photo.
?And now?? The girl?s chin declined to the photo.
?We?ll see. Do you know her?? They might be similar in age, but that was always an iffy prospect in RhyDin. Sab anticipated the shake of head that followed.
?Don?t worry about it, then.?
Mary leaned skinny elbows on the table?still pretty, if pale?her thin fingers turning the picture to face her, a closer study as if to memorize. ?She?s got a kind of look.? There was an affected detachment to her voice; the eyes that flicked up to the flint chips of Sab?s were far more involved. ?Listen...are we square??
Sab laughed the low, rich bordello laugh she?d forgotten she owned, surprised that it still carried its resonance. Mary flinched as if its peals had physically lashed her. ?If we weren?t, you would have known long before. Like I said, don?t worry about it.?
?It?s just--? Mary?s denim-clad knees brushed against a buttery leather thigh as two fingertips landed atop Sab?s wrist. She couldn?t recall Mary being so bold, but then she?d been away for awhile.
?Your hands are freezing,? the girl spoke sotto voce.
Sab turned her palm to capture those fingers and berate them with the clasp of her own, thumb feathering across a pale wrist. Once she might have taken note or felt a spark of interest. In Mary, in the tailored suit across the way?even, perhaps, in the bus boy, with his sheaf of dark hair falling over a charmingly unrefined face. Now she only felt the texture of the girl?s skin, the youth in it, and beneath, the hum of her pulse. Still human, after all. That pleased her.
There were a thousand ways she could have replied to the girl. She released her fingers, setting the edge of her smile right against the girl?s cheek. ?I?m a mausoleum, darling.?
It was a brand of truth she?d come to accept.