[FIC] Assorted snippets, circa Bendis run [G+; Daredevil]
Posting from LJ's web interface to see if the annoyance-killing stuff I put in the stylesheet yesterday really works.
I really shouldn't be writing again so soon, but I won't be able to get my hands on a copy of The Deluxe Transitive Vampire, much less Strunk & White, until the weekend, and I need something to do while waiting for the laundry to dry.
Sense and Sensuality, or, Several Short Vignettes About Super Powers and Relative Normalcy
[Insert that Foggy Nelson quote from the Bendis run about how for a blind guy, Matt has the surprising knack of picking out girlfriends who look like European supermodels]
He can't see their faces, so he goes by their sounds. He can hear in a woman's voice the confidence that comes from knowing that she is beautiful, from knowing she is desired. He can hear in a man's heartbeat when such a woman walks into a room, the way his pulse will quicken, his breathing speed up.
With Milla, there was her scent.
Unlike the others, Milla did not believe she was beautiful. Her friend had always insisted that she was pretty, but that could have merely been a kindness to a woman who couldn't see herself properly. She had no use for cosmetics, and initially, Matt could smell the lack of powder and perfume upon her. Only the loveliest of women would have walked around without make-up in fashion-conscious New York.
It was only later that he discovered she was blind.
By then, he'd heard her speak. Her speech was melodic and resonant, perfectly pitched and wonderfully expressive. She'd taken lessons to cultivate it, and she took the pleasure in the beauty of her voice which she could not in that of her face.
He wouldn't have cared about her looks after that. Appearances didn't matter to him.
But when he introduced her to Foggy, and he heard his best friend's heart skip, and the slight stammer of nervousness in the normally measured words, he was pleased; just as pleased as he was with the aromatic flawlessness of Milla's perfect unadorned skin, the soft questioning touch of her smooth uncalloused hand, the secret he could now share with her as he shared with so very few.
Foggy still jokes about the first costume he wore.
“Yellow and red, Matt? Jeez, it's a marvel no one ever guessed it was you!”
Colours are no longer a problem for him. They're just light, wavelengths reflected or absorbed according to spectrum. Sometimes they're absorbed as heat.
He's learned to feel the difference with his fingertips. Allowing for texture, a dark colour will feel warmer than a light one. A colour tending towards red has not the same quality as one tending to violet.
Years ago, [insert name of one of Matt's more fashionable and/or sensible exes] had made up a little chart. Though it's grown considerably, it still hangs on his closet door.
Every suit, shirt, and sock he owns is carefully tagged. A safety pin attaches a neat card, embossed with a braille description of the item, naming its colours, pattern, and material, and an alphanumerical code. The code is used on the chart to determine which garments may be worn together, so that he is always well dressed.
The courtroom is unforgiving. His cane and glasses garner a certain amount of sympathy from impressionable jurors, but anything clashing would quickly destroy any advantage thus conferred.
He's expanded the system since then. The tags are much larger, containing photographs posed on a mannequin, taken by a professional service under strict lighting conditions, matching the previous session every time. They also come with corresponding Pantone colour swatches, provided by another company. The colour numbers are denoted immediately below in braille, which he ignores in favour of the swatches themselves.
Now he can coordinate his own clothes.
Milla's rearranged his closet. He doesn't mind, since she hasn't moved the chart and all the tags are still there.
His last girlfriend had been sighted, and had instinctively grouped his clothing by colour. Milla goes by texture. The heavy leather and wool of his jackets and coats gives way to the finer wool of his tailored suits, and then the chunky knitted Aran sweaters yield to the smoother Argyle patterns and so on until his 300-thread count Egyptian cotton dress shirts.
There are other changes in his apartment. Matt used to send out for supper, or sometimes Foggy would bring over take-out. But Milla likes to cook.
In addition to his trusty old microwave, there's now an expensive convection toaster oven on the kitchen counter. A retro-styled DeLonghi model, manufactured in Italy and often advertised in wedding magazines.
Unlike most other kitchen appliances, it has no buttons. Only sturdy knobs which can be neatly turned to mark time, temperature, and function. There are two racks within, and it emits a cheery ding! whenever the pre-heating is ready, or the timer is up.
Milla works carefully using cloth potholders and silicone gloves. The cloth absorbs heat, and she'll press a potholder against the side of a dish, then draw it back and hold her fingers just above, to gauge how much more cooling is needed before she can handle it safely.
For the food itself, she goes by taste and smell, following recipe directions exactly, aided by a state of the art temperature probe which announces in its synthesized voice the exact number of degrees detected.
Sometimes, they prepare it together. They don't always cook, preferring the convenience of raw snacks and salads, ready to eat in only a few minutes. Milla likes it when Matt wraps his arms around her as they slice tomatoes together, his fingers guiding hers on the knife. She'll wear one of her lace trimmed camisoles for the occasion, enjoying the soft cotton of his shirt against her bareness, feeling his own skin where the sleeves have been rolled up.
He's offered to do it shirtless, but she says it would be too distracting.
They still dine out every so often. Matthew Murdock is a prominent public figure, and his reputation is enhanced by having a beautiful woman on his arm. Not to mention, he gets a kick out of being seen with Milla.
It's easy for him to get a table these days, even at the most exclusive restaurants. They go only to the best.
Eating out with Milla is interesting. At home, she likes finger foods. Crudités, hors d'oeuvres, slices of fruit, pastry, and bread. Even Buffalo wings and corn on the cob, which otherwise wouldn't appeal to European sensibilities.
In public, she has to keep to knife, fork, and spoon.
Whereas Matt can simply hold his hand over a dish and tell from aroma and the areas of hot and cold what's being served to him, Milla's senses are not nearly as sharp. Instead, she walks her fingers over the tablecloth to the plate. Once she reaches it, she then uses her fork, quietly tap-tap-tapping it from the edge of the plate to center, and all around, determining from the sound and the squish just where everything is. After that, she proceeds more or less like everyone else.
She has excellent spatial recollection, provided the waiter doesn't rearrange anything while laying out additional courses.
Notes: In the library downtown, there is in fact a book on cooking for the blind. I have not read it.
I did read once, long ago, (I think it was in a colour psychology book) a mention of a case study of a woman who could, with her eyes closed, detect the difference between various printed hues under a strong light, through the sensitivity of her fingertips to the differences in absorbed heat.
DeLonghi toaster ovens are indeed very expensive and marketed as ideal wedding gifts due to the expense. I do not possess one.
I would frankly love it if manufacturers made more unscented, hypoallergenic products. Maybe I don't want to smell like Spring Breeze, especially if my hair already reeks of Ocean Fresh.
Sure, I could just ask my dad to get those giant bottles of Cetaphil from the Costco and start using them instead, but that's a damn pricey way to get a non-irritating shower gel. And it doesn't solve the shampoo/conditioner problem.
I would not kill for this, since that would be un-Canadian, but I'd be perfectly happy to hunt down some Marketing VPs and club them like baby seals until I had my way.
That is all.
Update: Yup, no nagging box upon posting. The submission was a success.
I really shouldn't be writing again so soon, but I won't be able to get my hands on a copy of The Deluxe Transitive Vampire, much less Strunk & White, until the weekend, and I need something to do while waiting for the laundry to dry.
Sense and Sensuality, or, Several Short Vignettes About Super Powers and Relative Normalcy
[Insert that Foggy Nelson quote from the Bendis run about how for a blind guy, Matt has the surprising knack of picking out girlfriends who look like European supermodels]
He can't see their faces, so he goes by their sounds. He can hear in a woman's voice the confidence that comes from knowing that she is beautiful, from knowing she is desired. He can hear in a man's heartbeat when such a woman walks into a room, the way his pulse will quicken, his breathing speed up.
With Milla, there was her scent.
Unlike the others, Milla did not believe she was beautiful. Her friend had always insisted that she was pretty, but that could have merely been a kindness to a woman who couldn't see herself properly. She had no use for cosmetics, and initially, Matt could smell the lack of powder and perfume upon her. Only the loveliest of women would have walked around without make-up in fashion-conscious New York.
It was only later that he discovered she was blind.
By then, he'd heard her speak. Her speech was melodic and resonant, perfectly pitched and wonderfully expressive. She'd taken lessons to cultivate it, and she took the pleasure in the beauty of her voice which she could not in that of her face.
He wouldn't have cared about her looks after that. Appearances didn't matter to him.
But when he introduced her to Foggy, and he heard his best friend's heart skip, and the slight stammer of nervousness in the normally measured words, he was pleased; just as pleased as he was with the aromatic flawlessness of Milla's perfect unadorned skin, the soft questioning touch of her smooth uncalloused hand, the secret he could now share with her as he shared with so very few.
Foggy still jokes about the first costume he wore.
“Yellow and red, Matt? Jeez, it's a marvel no one ever guessed it was you!”
Colours are no longer a problem for him. They're just light, wavelengths reflected or absorbed according to spectrum. Sometimes they're absorbed as heat.
He's learned to feel the difference with his fingertips. Allowing for texture, a dark colour will feel warmer than a light one. A colour tending towards red has not the same quality as one tending to violet.
Years ago, [insert name of one of Matt's more fashionable and/or sensible exes] had made up a little chart. Though it's grown considerably, it still hangs on his closet door.
Every suit, shirt, and sock he owns is carefully tagged. A safety pin attaches a neat card, embossed with a braille description of the item, naming its colours, pattern, and material, and an alphanumerical code. The code is used on the chart to determine which garments may be worn together, so that he is always well dressed.
The courtroom is unforgiving. His cane and glasses garner a certain amount of sympathy from impressionable jurors, but anything clashing would quickly destroy any advantage thus conferred.
He's expanded the system since then. The tags are much larger, containing photographs posed on a mannequin, taken by a professional service under strict lighting conditions, matching the previous session every time. They also come with corresponding Pantone colour swatches, provided by another company. The colour numbers are denoted immediately below in braille, which he ignores in favour of the swatches themselves.
Now he can coordinate his own clothes.
Milla's rearranged his closet. He doesn't mind, since she hasn't moved the chart and all the tags are still there.
His last girlfriend had been sighted, and had instinctively grouped his clothing by colour. Milla goes by texture. The heavy leather and wool of his jackets and coats gives way to the finer wool of his tailored suits, and then the chunky knitted Aran sweaters yield to the smoother Argyle patterns and so on until his 300-thread count Egyptian cotton dress shirts.
There are other changes in his apartment. Matt used to send out for supper, or sometimes Foggy would bring over take-out. But Milla likes to cook.
In addition to his trusty old microwave, there's now an expensive convection toaster oven on the kitchen counter. A retro-styled DeLonghi model, manufactured in Italy and often advertised in wedding magazines.
Unlike most other kitchen appliances, it has no buttons. Only sturdy knobs which can be neatly turned to mark time, temperature, and function. There are two racks within, and it emits a cheery ding! whenever the pre-heating is ready, or the timer is up.
Milla works carefully using cloth potholders and silicone gloves. The cloth absorbs heat, and she'll press a potholder against the side of a dish, then draw it back and hold her fingers just above, to gauge how much more cooling is needed before she can handle it safely.
For the food itself, she goes by taste and smell, following recipe directions exactly, aided by a state of the art temperature probe which announces in its synthesized voice the exact number of degrees detected.
Sometimes, they prepare it together. They don't always cook, preferring the convenience of raw snacks and salads, ready to eat in only a few minutes. Milla likes it when Matt wraps his arms around her as they slice tomatoes together, his fingers guiding hers on the knife. She'll wear one of her lace trimmed camisoles for the occasion, enjoying the soft cotton of his shirt against her bareness, feeling his own skin where the sleeves have been rolled up.
He's offered to do it shirtless, but she says it would be too distracting.
They still dine out every so often. Matthew Murdock is a prominent public figure, and his reputation is enhanced by having a beautiful woman on his arm. Not to mention, he gets a kick out of being seen with Milla.
It's easy for him to get a table these days, even at the most exclusive restaurants. They go only to the best.
Eating out with Milla is interesting. At home, she likes finger foods. Crudités, hors d'oeuvres, slices of fruit, pastry, and bread. Even Buffalo wings and corn on the cob, which otherwise wouldn't appeal to European sensibilities.
In public, she has to keep to knife, fork, and spoon.
Whereas Matt can simply hold his hand over a dish and tell from aroma and the areas of hot and cold what's being served to him, Milla's senses are not nearly as sharp. Instead, she walks her fingers over the tablecloth to the plate. Once she reaches it, she then uses her fork, quietly tap-tap-tapping it from the edge of the plate to center, and all around, determining from the sound and the squish just where everything is. After that, she proceeds more or less like everyone else.
She has excellent spatial recollection, provided the waiter doesn't rearrange anything while laying out additional courses.
Notes: In the library downtown, there is in fact a book on cooking for the blind. I have not read it.
I did read once, long ago, (I think it was in a colour psychology book) a mention of a case study of a woman who could, with her eyes closed, detect the difference between various printed hues under a strong light, through the sensitivity of her fingertips to the differences in absorbed heat.
DeLonghi toaster ovens are indeed very expensive and marketed as ideal wedding gifts due to the expense. I do not possess one.
I would frankly love it if manufacturers made more unscented, hypoallergenic products. Maybe I don't want to smell like Spring Breeze, especially if my hair already reeks of Ocean Fresh.
Sure, I could just ask my dad to get those giant bottles of Cetaphil from the Costco and start using them instead, but that's a damn pricey way to get a non-irritating shower gel. And it doesn't solve the shampoo/conditioner problem.
I would not kill for this, since that would be un-Canadian, but I'd be perfectly happy to hunt down some Marketing VPs and club them like baby seals until I had my way.
That is all.
Update: Yup, no nagging box upon posting. The submission was a success.