nadia costa (treta) wrote in remains_rpg, @ 2015-08-04 12:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | # 2018 [08] august, nadia costa, nathaniel quinn |
oh, if you knew what it meant to me, anywhere but here.
Who: Nate Quinn & Nadia Costa
Where: LBJ Library
What: First meetings and moonshine tasting, before and after their interview.
When: Today, afternoon
The woman had been slowly settling into the library, pacing its overly-cramped hallways, stacks, and floors wherever her healing ankle let her, learning its ins and outs in preparation for when she'd finally be allowed outside on supply runs. She'd spent so much time poring over the books, practicing her English but feeling uniquely useless, until that irritable restlessness couldn't hold out any longer—Nadia wanted the opportunity to do something helpful, no matter what. So she'd finally reached out to this Mr. Quinn, slap in the farce, to schedule an interview. She hadn't arrived in Austin carrying very much, but she did have a story—and a twinge of bitterness that Antonio, Alejo, or her mother should have been here to tell it with her. But she would make do. Nadia stood on the sun-scorched road just outside the library, her identification pass burning a hole in her pocket, and forced her arms into a fold over her chest just to have something to do with her hands. There was a precious-but-dented pair of sunglasses on her nose as she squinted off into the distance, all her senses primed for shufflers, but mostly listening to the approaching rumble of a truck rolling its way up the street. She didn't wear a wristwatch and the public outdoor clocks had long-since run down, so she could only assume that he was pretty much on time. It was amazing the amount of dust that settled on the streets of Austin from the burnt out wasteland that surrounded this mecca of ruins and blister gas faded architecture. It was so much that behind the filmmaker and his handy truck was a plume of dirt and ash that pelted the backdrop like a smoke screen.. The clock in the cab of the truck said 2:33 PM in glowing digital blue. As far as he could tell the time that was illuminated was close enough. He’d said 2:30 but he was never sure how accurate any clock was now-a-days. At this point the sun was probably a better indicator; That blistering creator that made Austin summers Hell on Earth. He’d only been here a few weeks and he was already missing the cover of trees. He’d take humidity over constant sun. When he saw the figure out there waiting he slowed down. It didn’t take a genius, even from one hundred or so meters, to see that the person was whole and mentally sufficient. This was no Shuffler or Crawler or any of the other nicknames that had been given to the roaming infected. The truck slid in beside the woman and he rolled down the window with a press of a finger. “Park anywhere?” he asked. He hadn’t been over to the LBJ yet. The question made her feel like a valet, and the woman gave a crooked smile in response—it was a small drop of normalcy in a situation and setting that was anything but normal. No drone of cars and gridlocked traffic, no stop-lights blinking their patterns on and off, no press of drivers scrambling for spots, but he was still asking her where he should park. Nadia tilted her head towards the corner of the building: "Towards the side, I think. They like to keep the front open for supplies. And emergencies." She was already finding her rhythm here, fitting into the day-to-day life of LBJ, feeling its pulse thrumming behind her: 'neat and orderly' was desperately welcome after the chaos of the last few years. A simple nod was the man’s only response. He didn’t bother rolling up the window. He’d be leaving it down so that the insides didn’t pressure cook within the indiscriminate July heat. Nadia then took the opportunity for an assessing look through the open window, measuring the filmmaker she found inside: dark-haired and disheveled, with the permanent stubble that seemed to haunt the faces of most men these days (being clean-shaven was a luxury few could afford). He didn't seem threatening, but then again, most didn't at first. Nadia took a step back as the truck rolled past, and she tugged up the mouth of her shirt to avoid breathing in the suffocating cloud that followed. Austin was far drier than she was used to, and she was convinced that the past couple years must have simply made it worse, withering away the city until it risked simply blowing away. When the man left his vehicle, she stuck out her hand, still falling back onto familiar formalities. "So—you're Nathaniel, yes? Nadia. Or sangue, I suppose." She was short; she had to crane her head to meet his eye. “Nate.” he corrected her, taking the hand that Nadia had stretched out for him. This was when the Scotsman took the moment to assess her because she was looking so hard, determining him. His approach was softer. A touch of a smile snuck up on the corners of his lips. She was injured. That was the second thing he noticed. The third was the worldly wariness about her. That was something that had to sink in but the more they stood together, the more obvious it is that she has a story to tell. “I prefer Nadia if that is alright.” He knew Sangue wasn’t Spanish but he got the gist. “Sangue is blood. Is that Portuguese?” Surprise at his recognition flickered across her face like a passing breeze—that unexpected pleasure broadened her smile further than the cautious greeting she'd initially given him, now breaking into something more genuine. Perhaps she had expected too little of people in the United States, but then again, the more Nate spoke, she eventually realised that his accent was something else, more lilting than the drawl she'd heard from others here. "You have an ear for languages, Nate? It is indeed Portuguese. Brazilian." She could have left it at that, lips firmly sealed, but no one had expressed interest in her username before; it led to the sort of offhand thought that Nadia could have shared with her friends, but here she had none. So, after a hesitant pause, she pushed onwards: "I chose it because of a phrase we have: sangue bom. It means 'good blood', but more properly refers to a good person, a nice guy. And blood is, well, appropriate these days, no?" Her thin shoulders moved into a shrug before the woman clammed up again, unaccustomed to chattering quite so much (although the more that the days rolled on, the pent-up words and conversation increasingly felt like a dam building up behind her teeth, this story which wanted out). For his part, Nate listened. He wasn’t in the habit of asking questions only for polite conversation. He was interested in the people he ran across. He liked to know about them, what made them tick. It was the reason he had chosen his profession. It just made sense to do something he loves, to introduce the amazing stories that were out there, that still existed especially in the face of adversity they were wandering through. Some days it seemed like a dream. "And you are not American," she said plainly, as they fell into step towards the entrance and where she'd have to sign him in as a visitor. “Nae. Could be that I’m an honorary American by now.” He threw in. “Could be that all those lines on th’ maps pure tech huir uva wee now.” Her expression became thoughtful, lingering and trying to parse the brogue. Nadia hadn’t asked, but conversation is all about the give and take. So, while he turned and started to unload the equipment he’d brought for the interview, he filled in the blanks. “I’m from Arisaig. It’s on th’ West Coast of Scootland.” Equipment in tow, he looked up and toward the massive library. There’s a feeling of deja vu. As if he’s been here before. He imagined boxes of books and silver haired ladies. The feeling was fleeting. It was impossible that he’d ever been here. “What happened to your leg?” He’s carried everything and doesn’t consider asking her to pitch in. She’s nursing an injury and he’s used to lugging everything he owns around with him. If the woman was grateful, she showed it through a subtle tip of the head, an appreciative nod at his consideration. She glanced down at her boot while they walked: Nate gamely hefting his camera equipment in both arms, Nadia moving with the slightest of limps, a favouring of one foot. It had gotten much better over the past few weeks and she was near cleared for scouting again, but the injury still left its impression in her movements, an irritating weakness that had taken time to heal. "It was stupid," she sighed. "A sprained ankle while trying to climb away from a small horde. I was too rushed. If it had not been for the survivors from here," a flick of her hands gesturing towards the flat grey library, "I would be zombie food. It wasn't very serious but has kept me from scouting." “That’s not stupid.” He told her. “You’re lucky but definitely not stupid.” Another glance at her injury was thrown. The expression on his face was a look of sympathy. “A sprain will heal up and you’ll be out and about Austin soon.” it’s nothing she doesn’t know. He’s merely offered her some encouragement. They reached the door; Nadia held it open for him, this small act of chivalry the least she could do when he was so burdened. "I'm impressed you still have all that with you," she said, looking over his supplies contemplatively. "I barely made it with one backpack." “It was all in my truck. When the chaos erupted the last thing I thought about was taking it all out and packing it like I usually do in my cabin. When it was time to leave it was still in there. It came with me. I didn’t bring any clothes or anything useful for survival. Just...this.” he indicates the this by bouncing the pack he has hoisted on his shoulder. “Thank you Nadia.” he passes by her, into the LBJ. The LBJ was packed. Unlike the Capitol, there were people and little coves of personal space all over and spilled out. It’s not as stuffy as it feels at the big dome but it’s also going to be difficult to set up for an interview amidst all the commotion. “Is there somewhere we could go that’s a wee bit more serene?” The corner of her mouth twitched at the slang, amused despite herself. But Nadia nodded, even while she turned her attention to signing in her visitor (her signature a hurried scrawl, and flashing the pass they’d printed for her here). “Space is hard to come by, but there is a reading room on the tenth floor that should have some privacy—I requested use of it in advance. Will that do?” The guard cleared his throat. “Do you have an ID card, Mr. Quinn?” he piped up after the forms were filled out, somehow looking both bored yet alert. “We’ll hang onto it for the duration of your visit. If you don’t have one, we’ll have to take your picture.” The nod was tossed over to Nadia before the guard interrupted and he reached into his pocket for all his official IDs and badges. He fanned them out and let the guard pick and choose what he needed for the duration of the visit - license, passport, Capitol card. “This will do.” he told Nate and then it was the guard’s turn to get a nod from the tall Scotsman. Nadia hovered by the side of the desk, her hands fluttering restlessly before she rolled up her sleeves and tilted her head to the left and right for the guard, exposing flesh, subjecting herself to the usual check for bites and injuries, along with a gesture that Nate would have to do the same. It was almost odd, how quickly these things became routine. Quickly Nate followed suit. He unbuttoned and unzipped, flesh was uncovered and assessed by the guard. The scar from his first bite was raised and ruthless even still. It had healed in the ugliest way possible. His immunity meant very little though. Both the guard and the woman took note of the scar, which gave them pause, and Nadia bit back her own curiosity. Once they’d both passed muster, Nadia led them further into the library, one limping scout and one filmmaker under the watchful eye of Day’s security officers. after the interview. ◆ Nate is done. It may not be obvious to Nadia until he starts to fiddle with the camera, the mic, everything he’d carefully set up for them to begin the interview. It only takes a few moments and then he finally lets her in on what the fuck he’s even doing. This is done when he takes out the three jars he’s brought with him of Mama Mags Bode Made Moonshine. “We’ll have to do a follow-up interview if you’re willing.” he tells her, looking over his shoulder with his back toward her as he lines up the jars. None of them are labelled but he knows which is what. There’s the clear one, and two that were honey gold. “but I think we deserve a bevvy...” “Of course,” she says simply, and the answer could apply to both. A gesture of his hand to indicate the three jars of what he’d promised he would bring. “Which a; body should we start with?” he rubs his hands together. Obviously he’s thirsty. She rises, stretching her limbs—there’s a cramped tension in Nadia’s back that she hadn’t even noticed while her words fell out, spilling her story in a way she never would’ve thought possible. But there had been something about Nathaniel’s patient, attentive expression, the eye of that camera, and the listening tape, that brought it all out. It feels better. It’s clichéd, but she feels better. The words thank you are on the tip of her tongue, wanting to say something, acknowledge the interview, but she can’t quite bring herself to do it yet. So instead Nadia steps over and leans down to take a closer look at each of the unmarked jars, assessing. Back home, cachaça comes in all sorts of colours, but she was always drawn to the darker shades— “I like the ones that look like honey, for no other reason than that they look nice. I have no idea what difference it makes, however...” That’s all she needs to tell him and Nate is unscrewing the first jar. “A body is caramel and the other body is apple pie.” He can’t be positive of either until he uncaps at least one. When the cap is removed he takes a whiff and announces. “Caramel.” This is a flavor he hasn’t tried before, but ladies first and interviewees extremely so. He offers her the jar, which Nadia takes and sniffs experimentally, only to dart back from the liquid a little with her eyebrows rising in surprise.. “Usually they’re fruit based...so, maybe once ye get the herbs and greens goin’ you can get started on an orchard.” He’s teasing, mostly. Truthfully, he prefers plain to sweet. Bode makes the moonshine smooth though. He misses that slight tingling, burning sweetness that dissipates as it slides down into his stomach that he gets in aged Whisky. Still, this is an old family recipe and the craft that his friend has honed is obviously a labor of love. You can taste the care. He slides a hand down his face while he waits for her to try them. The smell of liquor is making him impatient. Honestly, the scent of this mountain dew is more potent than its taste. It smells like rocket fuel but it tastes more like a magic elixir. His reaction makes Nadia pause for a moment—she can feel him fidgeting beside her, his energy nearly vibrating off his skeleton—as she remembers his post and the confession laced into the words. In another time and another place, she might have treaded more cautiously with indulgences like this, skirted around such obvious demons. (And unbeknownst to her, in another time and another place, her older brother had once wrestled with his own.) But Nate is an adult, alcohol is in limited supply, it’s the end of the world, and so Nadia tips the glass back and takes a deep swig. While she experiences it, Nate sinks his irritability under the waves and watches her instead. It’s all the distraction he needs. She squeezes her eyes shut, clenching her teeth through the burn—but it’s nowhere near as harsh as she expected from fabled homemade alcohol. The sweetness softens its punch, instead sliding down her throat with a warming heat that spreads through her chest, settling under her tongue. “Meu deus, que gostoso,” Nadia exclaims in delight, the Portuguese bursting out before she can reel the words back in. She turns and holds out the jar for his turn, still marveling. “It actually does taste like caramel. How?” Another laugh is the reply she gets, arms up and empty handed. Clearly Bode hadn’t let him on the family secret. Even after all that time filming, talking, speaking he doesn’t know how the Coldirons get it exactly how it is. He knows the steps, could walk someone through the process but there’s something special in there that they’re either not sharing with him or he is too inexperienced to grasp. “It’s a mystery.” he smiles at her, even being a gentleman (of sorts) and handing her the apple pie so that she can continue on with their taste testing. “This one seems to be everyone’s favorite. Take a swig of this Barleycorn.” He traded one jar for the other. “Yeah?” he is expectant, waiting. It’s like he’s a stage mom wanting to know how each one scores. She indulges him (and herself), now sampling the second jar. Apple pie. Even after the first sample, Nadia had been a little skeptical. Now she’s just startled and impressed all over again: it is apple pie, and it burns like the compressed heat of summer packed into a jar, filling her up, all sharp cider-rum-cinnamon-apple. In some ways, better than a cocktail. In other ways, more dangerous than one: she hasn’t been eating well the past couple years, never had a good tolerance to begin with, and so it’s already hitting her, dulling and loosening the edges of everything. Helping to distract from all the stories she’s just shared, the memories stirred up too close for comfort. It’s almost easy to see how someone might fall into it, after the zombies. “Fuck,” she says, simply, but she’s grinning. “I love it. My praise to the chef, whoever made it. But you said it seems to be everyone else’s—it is not your favourite, then?” “I’m not particularly fussy.” he confesses but he doesn’t aim for either the caramel or apple pie. “but if I am gonna get blitzed I don’t want to pretend it’s dessert.” he sets the caramel down to pick up the clear and true! A few turns of the lid and he’s offering her a swig if she wants to try the plain stuff before he guzzles the proof. He doesn’t want to take too much if the clear turns out to be her favorite. But just the slightest sampling is enough to have Nadia shaking her head, deciding that she’ll stick with the other two; a lifetime of Brazilian desserts gave her a sweet tooth, and this drink is heavenly. Her cheeks are blushing and he absently reaches out and brushes a thumb over the apple of her cheek. It’s done before he can stop himself. It’s just the lightest touch. There’s a second of awkward realization after but he coughs it off and explains. “It’s been a long time since I saw anyone blush.” Nate had been alone for so long that he had to physically make sure that all of this company isn’t an illusion. “I just needed to make sure you were real.” Nadia goes still as water, a deer suddenly frozen in headlights—all too aware of how close this man is, and more than anything, how much of her he’s become privy to, like almost no one else has. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…” he looks mortified, knowing he probably crossed some line here. It’s just been so long since he’s had to indulge in 21st century manners. He’s fairly rough and tumble to start. Not at all shy with who he is, how he feels, what he wants. If there’s a sudden sharp lurch in her chest, she wants to blame it on the alcohol: too much too soon on a too-empty stomach, a queasy fluttering that she isn’t accustomed to. The last couple months have been starved of touch, for a woman used to constant casual contact with her friends: hugs and sloppy cheek kisses and arms hooked into elbows, effusive affection the way of Latin Americans. She misses it. “Were you out there for a long time?” Nadia asks suddenly, clearing her throat. It’s obvious she isn’t just thinking of today’s ride over to the library. When she questions him, he’s relieved that she hasn’t told him to fuck off and get out of here. She understands. She must. “Two years.” He estimates because he isn’t even sure what day it was. It’s hot out. It must be summer. The date on his phone said January 2015. Like her, he’s stuck with how much he wants to say and how much he should. Not even a month in Austin and he’s living with secrets. That’s just how it goes knowing Bode Coldiron. He can’t say anything. His brother’s life depends on his ability to keep his mouth shut. Instead of spilling his friend’s secrets he spills the contents of the jar into his mouth. It’s impressive how big a gulp he can get down his throat before he continues speaking. “I was alone mostly. Didn’t have much luck with any survivors out there.” People had turned mean. She’s nodding, understanding more than she could say; everyone’s always astonished when they hear how long Nadia was out. All of her own questions have piled up during the course of their interview, wanting to turn the tables and start digging beneath Nate’s surface, find out more—in a way, she isn’t surprised to hear that he’s been on the road for so long. As long as her. Perhaps it leaves its mark on someone: less obvious than a visible wound, but noticeable nonetheless. “It changes how you look at people. I was… amazed, honestly, that everyone was so friendly and helpful here at the library. I kept thinking that there must be some trick, some trap. I never used to be that way before.” An absent wave of the hand, indicating the solid building around them, the thousand-plus people living inside it. His eyes follow her arm but they don’t stray much beyond her. They’re in this room, a crowd is outside. He doesn’t want to focus on the hundreds. Not yet. He’ll have plenty of time for that. There’s that bite scar on his skin, the weight of a story behind it, but Nadia isn’t the type to pry. Instead she nurses her jar of apple pie moonshine, leaning back into her chair, drawing one leg under her to get more comfortable. “I was lucky to be travelling with my mother and my friend. It was everyone else that we had no luck with, either.” “Everyone is cradling their self preservation. If it comes down to someone’s family eating or me eating, well then, I think we know who is going to go hungry.” He takes a gulp of moonshine to punctuate this thought. He’s never been much of a sipper. He likes to grab on to life and go on the ride. Maybe that’s why this end of worlds stuff looks alright on him. Or maybe it’s because he plans to be drunk through most of it. He hates being sad. Not that he came out unscathed. He’s felt loss deep down. It’s a comfort sometimes though. Just when things get too happy or alright he has the memories of her to ground him. That way he never gets too complacent. There’s always that nail he’s standing on. Just then he realizes he’s looming over her, standing there like a creeper and so he falls back into his seat. Moonshine held with one hand in his lap. His posture wide open and relaxed. It’s on the tip of his tongue to tell her not to let him get too drunk but who is he fooling? Driving on empty roads, drunk is just his kind of travelling. She surveys him over a hand crooked at her chin, expression pensive. Most days, Nadia’s every movement is careful, wary like a spooked animal—but most of that has been shed today, thanks to long conversation and this shockingly strong moonshine with its staggering punch. Her defenses drooping briefly, now seeming more like what she must have been back home, not looking over her shoulder at all hours. It’s nice, just sitting and talking to another human being. Her traveling partners had dropped one-by-one, until there was nothing but the long night, the quiet pounding against one’s eardrums. “Did you make this yourself?” she asks, rolling the liquid around inside the jar and watching how the bubbles dissipate quickly, a sign of the high alcohol content. A small reminder that she has to take it easy. She can’t keep up with most normal men, let alone a self-confessed alcoholic. “Are there stills at the Capitol, this magical place of plenty?” This is the moment in an alcoholic’s life that he finds out he’s not as clever as he thinks he is. She asks if he made the booze, asks if the stills are at the capitol and he’s caught. There is no rewinding. The tight lipped look he tosses over her way is a revelation in and of itself. “No?” The word is said long and sing songy. It’s capped at the end in a question mark because he wants her to get it, to know that wherever he’s gotten these glorious jugs are nowhere he can tell her about. At least not yet. Not until he’s sure and he can’t even pretend he is, even if he wants to be. She seems on the level. He’s about 80% sure that he could say something and she wouldn’t say a word but there’s the whole matter of putting her in danger too. Demi’s been keeping secrets about the Dog Park because the mayor wants the Hellhounds blood. Who knows what or who he would use to get a slice. Their talk had been flowing well up until this point, skittering across histories both raw and personal, but now it hits a speed bump—judders to a halt, faltering—and there’s something in Nate’s eye, a silent entreaty. She’s seen it before: the blank spaces in her father’s letters home, the acts of omission, even the way Antonio’s eyes would harden if her barrage of questions came too close to something confidential, some hint of cartel life that he can’t divulge. So she nods. She might not know the specifics, but she knows that look and knows how to tiptoe around those gaping holes, so Nadia nods. “Don’t worry,” she says, taking another sip (she’s careful to dole it out, and still feels that liquid warmth in her chest). She leaves it at that, then switches gears. Again, she is with him, knows when to dodge certain things. He doesn’t want to be untruthful and so he’d rather avoid the topic entirely. “If we can find some sugarcane, I’ll see if I can write down a recipe for cachaça. A little piece of my country to your adopted one.” Her smile is a gesture, an offering. She doesn’t need to know where it came from. All that matters is that it’s here, and there’s good company. “Sugarcane.” He repeats, unsure where they could find something like that. “Does it have to be sugarcane?” Certainly they could find bags of sugar out there, he’s fairly certain that in the mad rush bags of sugar weren’t the first things to fly off the shelf. Maybe? “Tell me the recipe?” he asks her, “I’ll look for anything you need when I’m out and about.” Even with his experience drinking, the proof of the moonshine is high and it soon gets under his skin too. It’s seen in his eyes, the way it takes the shine right out from them. Nadia tilts her head and squints her eyes, as if she could read the recipe off the wall behind him. In truth, she’s trying to cast her memory back to a set of riotous cousins in the countryside who had their own copper still. “Grind the sugarcane to get the juice, ferment with yeast and some maize for… one day, I think. Twenty-four hours. And then boil down to get the high proof, and age it for a long while, at least one to six months. It is like rum, just with the cane juice instead of molasses, you know? Cane was often sold frozen, so maybe, somewhere, a freezer has been left on and… Well. It might be impossible. But still. Just in case.” It’s the vaguest of hopes and the slimmest of threads, but then again, so is most of life nowadays. “I had an Aunt tell me once that all things were possible.” Nate isn’t sure where that memory comes from but there it is none-the-less. It’s a summer day in late August. In the haze of the past he remembers his Aunts braided hair, the way the wind from the shore and the salt of the ocean had stolen little pieces from it during the course of the day and the way she kept trying to tuck it back up unsuccessfully. He remembers the pink lipstick she always wore fading through the day. He remembers the smile that she only gave him, worn all that day, when they stole away moments at the beach. That day he’d found her a coveted piece of red sea glass. A rarity for her collection. He’d been 8. She’s kept it up until her death when he was 13. He’d rescued it from the trash when his mother hired someone to go through her things. He still had it. Meanwhile, in the present day, Nadia has stopped drinking for now; the sweet drink went down too quickly and her head is dizzy. It feels like her tongue has come undone from the top of her mouth, a thought slipping out before she’s even aware of having voiced it: “Thank you for this, by the way,” Nadia says, loose but sheepish. “The drinks but also the interview. I did not want to talk about it at first, but—you make it easier, somehow.” What does anyone say to that? All he can think to say is, “Thank you...for talking to me.” this isn’t some cheesy sideway wind. This is a truth. Their lives are hard and reliving the past is harder. “It doesn’t make figuring out a birthday celebration any easier with those three words you gave me though. I was hoping.” he tsks and then takes another sip of his brother’s moonshine. “but I am determined.” She gives him a rueful smile, a small thing nursed in the corner of her mouth, charmed with the exercise he’s assigned himself. Although there’s a twinge of regret knocking around inside her chest—in hindsight, now knowing what they were for, she shouldn’t have picked those particular words. But Brazil and its language is a world of poets, of melancholy and romance, and she can’t shed its nagging influence. She breathes out, tastes cinnamon on her tongue. “I could give you three others, but I get the impression you are a man who likes a challenge. You may not like giving up.” Most of the people she associates with don’t like giving up. “Although you do not have to do anything for me, you know. We are barely strangers.” “That means we’re almost friends,” he corrects. His optimism is more flagrant now. Back then, BZ, it was charming. Lately it’s a novelty. “But don’t pity me. I can do this.” he shrugs off her mere suggestion to make it easy on him by undoing the challenge he set forth. He’s wanted to do something and in all honesty, the thing that he completes will be a gesture in and of itself. A touch of kindness in a world gone mad. “Just don’t expect a cake,” because he was a horrible cook, baker… chef. Nadia laughs then, at last: despite an array of scattershot smiles throughout the interview and this meeting, this is her first time outright laughing in front of him. It’s a low sound, her deep voice resulting in a throatiness, something held in the chest rather than a high-pitched titter. “I shan’t. With today’s ingredients, I do not even want to know what a cake would be like—flavoured with old preservatives and stale chocolate? This,” and she gestures to the amber jar in her hand, “is the closest to cake I’ve been in a very long time.” He clips her jar with his. “That’s what I’ve said all along.” her laugh makes him chuckle. His laugh is more like a shaken up soda and it explodes everywhere messy and fast and then it’s done and his hand is palm down on his chest, against his heart while residual clucks float up. Even a chuckle is a force. His laughter is inescapable. It feels good to laugh with someone. It feels good not to be alone, waking up in a truck, food bare, head full of questions. His head is still full of questions but they’re not those hopeless kind - Instead of asking when this will end, he’s asking how long until I laugh again. |