Nobody is smart but Daryl Hockney (the_automaton) wrote in musingslogs, @ 2010-11-04 12:43:00 |
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Entry tags: | sherlock holmes |
Who: Daryl
What: Playing with corks (a narrative)
Where: Bathos 204
When: Tuesday afternoon/early evening, after riding in cars with strangers
Warnings: Daryl exhibiting signs of "cute" might be too much for some readers to handle.
It seemed that nothing was going according to plan anymore. A routine stop at Ms. Eirwen’s motel room had turned into a field trip and nap. A stop at the Bathos had turned into an examination of her mailbox, which ended in Daryl standing in her kitchen, clutching a coffee-stained note in her hands as she began to root about for the necessary supplies. She shouldn’t have felt this way about a simple riddle that likely had to do with basic physics and chemistry, but she couldn’t fight the warm feeling in her chest as she pulled out three cups from her cabinet.
Before too long, she was seated at the table with three glasses full of water, a small bowl filled with salt, a bag of flour, two needles, and half a dozen corks she had salvaged from bottles of wine that were now contained by makeshift stoppers composed of paper towels and plastic. Looking down at the note as if needing a reference, she pulled the first cup towards herself, peering into its aqua blue depths. She dropped a cork in it, watching it bob a bit before floating to the cup’s side as if being pulled on a string. Reaching down, she pulled the cork out and set it aside.
Her gaze strayed to the bowl of salt, lighting on it for a few seconds before she snatched it up. With a strange amount of glee, she dumped the salt in the cup, swirling it about hastily. Once the surface of the water settled, she dropped the cork inside. Just as before, it moved to the side, earning a small frown. But that was no matter. She had a second glass still. Without bothering to test the cork first, she began dumping flour in the water until it was sludgy and disgusting. Though Daryl hated messes with the wrath of a finicky housecat, she found herself strangely thrilled by the way the flour stuck to the sides of the cup. She wasn’t smiling of course – she never smiled – but there was something amusing about watching the water splash up and drag the flour clumps down into the black abyss.
Once the flour-water was suitably soupy, Daryl dropped the cork in the cup, watching it float. Just as before, it stuck to the side, staying far away from the center. With a sigh, she pushed the cup away, taking the last and pulling it close. This time, she had a different idea. If solutes wouldn’t work, she’d add something to the cork. If it was surface tension, a needle stuck in the cork might change things. Picking up another cork, she stuck the two needles in it out like wings, out at the sides enough to stabilize the cork without hitting the sides of the cup.
For a moment, she thought it had worked. Unfortunately, just when it seemed like she had made progress, the cork wobbled and glided up to the side of the cup, leaving her hopes dashed. With a sigh, she pushed the cup away as well, leaving herself with three corks, an empty bowl, and a bag of flour. After staring at it all for a few moments, she stood, going to get another cup.
This time, she grabbed a transparent glass, not thinking much of it as she filled it three-quarters of the way to the brim. When she held it up to the light, though, something caught her eye. The meniscus of the water was visible through the glass, revealing the little dip it created as the water towards the edges of the glass clung to it. Never taking her eyes off the meniscus, she rushed to the table, groping blindly for a cork. She dropped it in the glass, watching it gravitate up the slope of the meniscus to reach the side.
Turning the faucet on again, she slowly filled the glass with water. She recalled the dynamics of water’s adhesive and cohesive properties, the way an attraction to the sides of the glass created a concave meniscus. She needed something convex. Tapering the water flow to a slow crawl, she watched with gleeful anticipation as the water in the glass began to form a little dome. She cut the water off quickly as the glass threatened to leak, watching the cork drift from the edges of the glass up to the very top and center of the dome.
A deep smirk formed on her lips, matching the bizarre glint of excitement in her stony gray eyes. Carefully so as to not spill, she walked the glass over to the table, setting it down gingerly. She watched it a moment, just appreciating its simplicity, before picking up the note and examining it. Her mind filled with memories of Mr. Morgenstern hunched over it, mumbling haphazardly to himself as he scrawled the note, face haggard and worn. She set it down, disturbed by how much this image disturbed her. Puckering her lips slightly, she took a step back, regarding the mess on the table with a detached eye.
No. Shaking her head, she turned away from the table. She couldn’t waste any more time. She had to return to the hospital to ensure that Detective Warda was still stable – she’d been gone for so long, those imbeciles could have done anything to her. Not bothering to clean up her mess, she quickly began to collect her things, leaving the apartment behind in under five minutes’ time.