Re: The Cat: Rae and Kratos
The tattoos were red, a hard contrast to his colorless skin. Broad strokes and inked clouds rather than definitive lines. Finding someone to do it had been both costly and difficult in his time, and to request the specific lines required a painful but necessary knowledge. Her let her look in a way that he did not ignore, which was different from the way he let everyone else look at him. The mess of his hair never bothered him, for example, and the thickness of his brows, which always seemed to cause a squint. Today he wore a generic green shirt the color of the undergrowth, jeans with white knees, and his interminable flat expression. He obviously wondered what she was here for, and turned his head slightly in acknowledgment of her comment.
"Καλησπέρα," (Kalispera), he returned the greeting. He let her use his tongue; the boy was not here, but they had not addressed the topic of Kratos' origins again at home. He leaned on his elbows a moment more until she looked past him. It was a big shoulder, and took work. He let the pause sit a moment, eyes squinting again in thought, and then pushed up. His affirmative sounded, in English, like a negative, close to na. But he turned and found a glass.
He set the long stem in front of her--it looked bizarrely delicate in his massive hand--and then brought out a bottle. It was a five year old Cabernet Sauvignon. He twisted the bottle as he finished the pour so it wouldn't drip, and then he set the bottle next to his elbow--not within her reach, and leaned again on his elbows. The other people in the bar noticed his preoccupation. There was some elbow nudging to draw friends' attention, some good-natured whispering and smiles, but then the Yankees game started and distracted the small crowd toe the screen in the corner.