Repose Memories (reposememories) wrote in repose, @ 2017-06-07 02:46:00 |
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Entry tags: | damian wainright, daniel webster, louis donovan, ~plot: memories |
[Memory]
What: Memory
Will characters be viewing the memory or experiencing it?: Experiencing
Warning, this memory contains: Nothing bad
You wait. It is late, and it is cold. You do not like the cold. You prefer the sticky heat of skin coated and glistening with sweat. You prefer a life lived sleeveless. Your upper arms are strong with muscles, and you like to sweat. This is not a life of sweating. It is a life of waiting. Now, you sit in a diner, and you wait with your hands cupped around a mug of coffee that is black and no longer steams. Outside, life slugs by, but you are not certain you would call this life.
"It's a life."
You hate this voice. You hear it often now. It is loud, young, optimistic, and you wish to shove your fist into its mouth until the tongue no longer moves. It would not silence the voice. This, you know, but it would make you feel better.
"Be quiet," you tell the voice, but the voice does not listen. This voice, it does not ever listen.
"What's the alternative? To be gone from this place? You don't want that."
"What do you know of my wants?" You ask the voice, but you know the voice speaks truth. You do not want to fade. If you wished to fade, it would already be done. You are not one made for going quietly. You feel muted, empty, carved out and hollow. You are like the dead tree that burns, and yet it does not turn to ash. You remain.
"I know this coffee is shit, mate."
You hate this voice. It is young. It is something you should allow to become a part of you. This is how it is meant to be, and yet you resist this. You drink the coffee, but you do not acknowledge how much you dislike it. You long for coffee that is thick, strong, sweetly bitter and unfiltered. You long for coffee that you must very nearly chew if you drink it too quickly. There must be time to allow the grinds to sink to the bottom of the cup. You must drink slowly, so the grinds do not coat the tongue. It is not the drink of your people, but you learned to appreciate it long ago. Here, there is no ibrik. Here there is coffee that drips through paper and is merely water painted brown.
You drink this coffee. You try to make yourself enjoy it, and the voice laughs. You hate this voice.
You place your bills upon the counter, and you stand. You do not tip generously. There is not enough money in the pockets of your jeans for generous tipping, but this does not matter. This waitress, she does not expect to be tipped well by the likes of you. She has been standing near to the phone for your entire stay, which has not been a long one, and she moves away when you reach the door. This you see in the reflection of fogged glass. It is late, and there is no one else in the diner, and you are accustomed to this fear you bring to the eyes of women in this country.
For once, the voice does not offer commentary.
You step out into the cold night, and you do not like this cold. You close your eyes, and you think of sheen on ocher, and umber, and henna shades. It is a good thought, and you pull your collar up higher to guard your neck from the biting chill. This, you think, is shit.
"Like the coffee."
"Yes," you say, finally acknowledging the voice. "As was the coffee."