faet
Cracked the back of the car open and dropped the cooler on the concrete with a thud. Broke open a flatpack of paper plates and plastic cups. Snapped the tab on an ice cold something or other, tipping it back while the grill heated up.
Summer.
They strung down over the house's walls, twisting, obscuring the ancient brick. It was hard to see anything but the vines; the windows mere flashes of dull grey reflected light amid the dark oily green of the leaves, the walls themselves nothing more than climbing masses.
When the rain comes, it is too much for the thirsty ground. The first droplets splatter, leaving dark patches in the dust, quickly soaking in; they leave a pointillist imagining along the ground, small dots joining into larger, larger dots melding into a whole. And that whole is water.
It slithered, and she liked that. It coiled and slid, and she liked that too. It turned its head, as if sensing her eyes on it, flickering its tongue out, testing the air. She held still, even her breath pausing, and it never flinched, its arrowhead nose pointing directly at her.
She tumbled into the snow, laughing, a neon green and electric blue snow angel come to life, or perhaps some sort of alpine turtle newly turned over. Her hands and feet waved wildly as she grinned up at me. "It's fabulous!" The words made steam bubbles of her breath, froze, and drifted away on the high mountain air.
Greg was grinning, holding the fish in both hands. He hefted it. "Must be at least a fifteen pounder. We'll eat for a week on this one."
It was a long slow moment before Suze could bring herself to respond.
It didn't take long to realize she wasn't one of them. It was subtle; you couldn't put your finger on it. There was something about the way she dressed, about the way she did her hair, about the way she seemed to be invited to everything without really being invited. She just wasn't part of any of it.
They said he could never be taught. They said he was too slow, too stupid, too backward. They pointed to the way his letters wobbled bewilderedly around the page when he tried to write them, turning and twisting one way and another without managing to form words.
We're a pair. There's a little imbalance, sure, but what relationship isn't at least a little uneven. It's a matter of keeping up rotational inertia and centers of gravity. So what if I move three times as fast? You're much more massive.
There's something about the feel of warm paraffin that is impossible to describe. It's reminiscent of childhood mud puddles and the soft adult decadence of expensive chocolates; silk and warmth and soothing smoothness all rolled into one.
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writing since 2012 · 15 entries · 15 days shown up
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