Sunday story + exasperation
I hate not being able to talk about things.
I also hate the fact that I stayed up til 6 am last night, out of sheer boredom and loneliness, because who the fuck am I going to hang out with at 5 in the morning? As a result I slept through most of today, but it scarcely matters because I haven't missed anything.
I'm becoming the mopiest little bitch, aren't I.
Time for a story! The words are: shark, mulatto (jesus christ), reassessment, rice, gruff. It will have to be an antique story because what the fuck, no one says mulatto.
Ana walks down to the docks with her skirt floating around her brown legs, the summer fabric feeling sexy and light as it brushes her knees. She walks like a queen, shoulders back, bare feet tapping the wood and gracefully skipping around the fish entrails and detritus beneath her. Shark fin soup. It's shark fin soup today, and she can hardly wait to hold that bowl in her hands.
Some gruff mulatto sailor whistles at her and she pretends she isn't pleased, rolls her eyes at him. He only grins back. He can see the smug enjoyment of the looks she garners. It's bubbling softly behind her collarbone.
Around the barrels she dances, ducking crates being swung from an overhead crane, nimbly stepping between muscular workers like an eel in a narrow cave. She emerges unscathed from the chaos, and she's at the market. Old toothless women selling great bags of rice that their grandsons carried there, a smiling pregnant woman offering fruit just this side of rotten, the tall skinny man with the tatyoos on his hands and the best price in town on fresh octopus. But it's the man with the bent head on the left, the one with one arm and a face like an angel. And it's the box in front of him, filled with melting ice, and the perfect bloody triangles that are displayed there.
She kisses his lips, calls him darling, and takes a fin, reminding him as she goes to be home in time for dinner.