I Never Promised You....
WHO: Roderich + Anyone... that wants some cake?
WHEN: Friday, September 11th. Afternoon.
WHERE: A rose garden somewhere in Liberty.
WHAT: His favorite tea with his favorite cake at his favorite get-away. Except something is wrong.
Roderich wasn't at work. Again. But that shouldn't be surprising to anyone anymore.
Leaned over a stone table in a quiet section of the garden, the infamously idle assistant curator of MOCA clutched a plastic fork loosely. The dull tines absentmindedly attacked the moist chocolate cake set in front of him, still moderately perfect in its take-away box. Dark brown mousse clouded the tip of the utensil. His freshly brewed tea, kept warm in the Styrofoam cup, cooled down next to the dessert. Faint steam escaped through the lid. At least the September climate was keeping his tea at the appropriate temperature.
At any other day, at any other time, Roderich would be happily enjoying his favorite tea, his favorite cake, at his favorite hide-away. Any other day, there would be a faint smile on his lips as he flavored the Sachertorte, priced at $6.75 a slice; a satisfied look as the black tea with lemon juice and sugar, priced at $4.50 a cup, ran down his throat. (As a Viennese, he should love coffee more, but coffee had just never appealed to him. Tea was better, however disgusting the Austrian method of tea-drinking might be. A certain English neighbor of his would be so distraught... wherever he might be at the moment.)
But today...
Today, the cake sat unsavored and the tea untasted. The red roses around him - their beauty fading - quietly withered in the whisper of a breeze.
Roderich sat alone in the rose garden.
WHEN: Friday, September 11th. Afternoon.
WHERE: A rose garden somewhere in Liberty.
WHAT: His favorite tea with his favorite cake at his favorite get-away. Except something is wrong.
Roderich wasn't at work. Again. But that shouldn't be surprising to anyone anymore.
Leaned over a stone table in a quiet section of the garden, the infamously idle assistant curator of MOCA clutched a plastic fork loosely. The dull tines absentmindedly attacked the moist chocolate cake set in front of him, still moderately perfect in its take-away box. Dark brown mousse clouded the tip of the utensil. His freshly brewed tea, kept warm in the Styrofoam cup, cooled down next to the dessert. Faint steam escaped through the lid. At least the September climate was keeping his tea at the appropriate temperature.
At any other day, at any other time, Roderich would be happily enjoying his favorite tea, his favorite cake, at his favorite hide-away. Any other day, there would be a faint smile on his lips as he flavored the Sachertorte, priced at $6.75 a slice; a satisfied look as the black tea with lemon juice and sugar, priced at $4.50 a cup, ran down his throat. (As a Viennese, he should love coffee more, but coffee had just never appealed to him. Tea was better, however disgusting the Austrian method of tea-drinking might be. A certain English neighbor of his would be so distraught... wherever he might be at the moment.)
But today...
Today, the cake sat unsavored and the tea untasted. The red roses around him - their beauty fading - quietly withered in the whisper of a breeze.
Roderich sat alone in the rose garden.