EggsI drift slowly awake, upwards. It is first light, the gentle grey light, the light that creeps in through the windows and drifts to the floor like so much smoke, doing little to chase away the unseen in the corners. The living room is dim, diffuse with it. I am sprawled on the couch, and the ottomans. Last night we pushed them together for more room. I am not uncomfortable. They were made for this.
From the doorway on the other side of the room spills sweet yellow light from the kitchen, in neat edges across the dark wood of the floor. There is shuffling beyond the doorway, where shadows occasionally fall. I do not move, but my eyes clear, and across the room I can see Mr. Shen, busy in the kitchen. I keep very still, even as I clutch at Juliet's arm. I hope I do not wake her.
Mr. Shen is making himself eggs.
He cracks eggs into the pan on the stove, first one, then two, then three. He stirs them gently with a spoon, carefully adding cream from the little clay jug and butter from the pallet with a long, thin knife. He reaches slim fingers into the pepper pot, letting pungent dust fall into the pan. His stirring is slow and strong, and the moments stretch in the strange light, and I am very still. When they are done, he nods to himself and makes a little noise, sliding the eggs out onto a plate that has been sitting on the radiator. He is careful when he puts the plate before himself on the table, and then again when he returns with two forks.
For Mr. Shen is also sitting at the table. There are two Mr. Shens.
They eat quietly, gently, letting the forks make only the smallest carefree noises as they strike the plate. They keep their heads close as if in quiet conversation, but I hear them say nothing. They are calm and careful as they eat in the little pool of light, an island of gold in the dark house.
I am dreaming it, but for Juliet. I turn to her, for she too is too still, and see her lips barely parted, eyes open and shining.
The Stars Do ShineThe air has turned chilly and swift again, but the sun is bright today. I am safe from the wind in any case. I am in the kitchen, behind wide panes of glass. I am cleaning. I have dried the plates, and they make a pleasant click as I stack them.
"So there are two of Shen," Jacobo says. He is limp in a chair, facing the garden in the window. He looks very tired, even though it is only just past midday.
The tableware is of all manner of pattern. I hold a soup spoon up to the sun. The bowl is round and fat, and free of spots. It gleams in the light. Around the stem of the spoon roses curl in shallow cuts, only the barest careful nicks for thorns.
"What if there were two of Juliet?", Jacobo says. A sigh escapes him. "Imagine that."
Annals of the Other WorldFrom The Catalogue of Improbable Insects:
Rust Wasps (hymenoptera ferrum)
Rust wasps are an indigenous species of wasp native to isolated areas of the Continent, and wide bands of the Americas (colonies also seem to be gaining a foothold in Kolkata). Characterized by a small size and a matte black body, rust wasps make habitats by tearing off and re-cementing extant oxidized iron from the local environment into nests, typically hung from a large concrete structure. Rust wasps are vicious defenders of their territory. Deaths have been reported in the field.
The typical rust wasp nest is cone-shaped construct, usually about 200 cm in height. Of particular interest are the traceries that the wasps build out from the sides of the nest. These structures serve no known practical purpose.
In recent years, there has been a small but steady market for rust wasp nests amongst the more avant-garde in sculpture collecting circles. This has given rise to a small group of dedicated specialists who harvest nests from the wild. This is dangerous work, usually executed alone, at not inconsiderable expense, and often with great peril. Techniques are closely guarded, and it is sadly too often that those to attempt the trade only succeed once.
The Communiques of AnatomiesIt is always something to come home to the answering machine when it has something waiting. There are times when the things left there tend toward the mundane: wrong numbers chased without realization, confused mumblings, drunken, misdirected heat. Other times, the leavings sink to banality, hawking something or coyly requesting call. Kind voices come from loved ones, too, to be sure. The little purple light flashes merrily to make me guess at its treasures.
Sometimes, though, I am given a momentary invitation to another time and space. There is no message. Background noise bubbles to the fore, offering a tantalizing low fidelity glimpse of a random surrounding. There is often times a voice nearby, but not near; they are a little stronger than the mumble, but not by much. Sometimes not. Sometimes there is only unintended space, a span of little noises from someone else's life, left for me to ponder and accidentally delete.
Until The Bill ComesThe phone is ringing.
The rain and the chill have by turns chased us together, and then teased us apart. We have gathered into thick knots of family, invading rooms to fill them, until we scatter to corners of the house in search of weathering peace. We compress, expand. The house is breathing us.
The house exhales. We have fled each other, and the afternoon has settled quiet over this place, letting in only the barest drumming of the rain on the roof. The noise is easily swept into commonplace and ignored, but I am listening.
I have crept in here, into the far corner of the living room. I have my book, half read, and a small pot of salted almonds. I choose the comfortable chair in an effort to be wise, and perhaps a little greedy. I wonder at it now. The chair is next to the phone.
The bell burbles at me. There is no other phone, and I do not hear anyone coming to get this one. There is a heavy stillness, strangely made more so by the insistent peal. It seems suddenly that I am alone in the house. The handle is smooth to the touch, and cool.
I hold the receiver to my ear, but I do not know what to say.
There is static and buzz on the wire. It comes in gentle swells, quietly washing the line clean. There are other noises, too: muddled and uncertain earmarks of work and movement, somewhere on the far end of the other side. Someone makes a small sound. It may be a question; it may be meant for me. But they are gone, now, and the line is quiet again.
All content under copyright by the author. Dancing is permitted. The strange deltic glyphs in the sand under tidal flow are a pleasure to watch in their deepening. Offer not valid in Kansas. We put it down and then we lost it. It all happens in the corner of the eye. Commentary accepted at pen@goob.com, although the traps are agressive and the pointy bits simply drip with dark liquour. We have a dog, but we do not own it. Thank you.