Non-Fandom Drabbles
She was people-watching again. She’d been doing it so often lately that she’d practically turned it into an art-form. Though street-watching was more dynamic, she liked the in-depth observation available at coffee-shops. Of course, currently the added fun of eavesdropping was curtailed somewhat by her limited grasp of French, if that’s what you could call the dialect spoken there. It was funny: she’d gotten by with the Quebec accent, which many considered unintelligible, yet this little town in the south of France had her feeling as if she were back in Remedial French.
The good thing, though, was that the people were so expressive, making grand gestures and waggling their eyebrows everywhere - the two old men especially as they argued over a game of dominoes.
There weren’t that many people at the coffee-shop anyway, it being quite late in the afternoon. There was the aforementioned domino-players, a few middle-aged women chatting about, one dressed in the traditional black befitting a widow, chatting about…flowers? Or maybe that was a euphemism of some kind… There were also a couple of families, one with a pair of young girls playing with the salt and pepper shakers - until their father took a sip of his water and sputtered and choked on the flavourful water. The couple with the girls appeared to be having a quiet, controlled argument. Grace was willing to bet it wasn’t about what colour to paint the front porch.
***
The walls are never white enough for you, and you worry at them long after your hands are raw and your nails cracked. You even wear the paint away, gut the walls as you work your way to the plaster until you are covered in white dust, a frantic ghost save for where the sweat reveals skin.
***
“I would forget my own name sometimes; don’t be offended if I forget your own. I remember you, that’s what matters. The rest is just - details, minutia. Besides, what’s in a name? You’re parents chose it, not you. Those syllables that label you - and not uniquely, either - hardly represent who you really are. But I remember you, who you were, who we-"
***
That’s the Freedom Market, specializing in the slave trade. A bit of a poetic name if you ask me, touting about the “selling of freedom” and all that, but it serves its purpose. Of course, you can also buy your freedom, if you’re a slave. Just keep in mind that any owner can outbid your offer.
The good thing, though, was that the people were so expressive, making grand gestures and waggling their eyebrows everywhere - the two old men especially as they argued over a game of dominoes.
There weren’t that many people at the coffee-shop anyway, it being quite late in the afternoon. There was the aforementioned domino-players, a few middle-aged women chatting about, one dressed in the traditional black befitting a widow, chatting about…flowers? Or maybe that was a euphemism of some kind… There were also a couple of families, one with a pair of young girls playing with the salt and pepper shakers - until their father took a sip of his water and sputtered and choked on the flavourful water. The couple with the girls appeared to be having a quiet, controlled argument. Grace was willing to bet it wasn’t about what colour to paint the front porch.
***
The walls are never white enough for you, and you worry at them long after your hands are raw and your nails cracked. You even wear the paint away, gut the walls as you work your way to the plaster until you are covered in white dust, a frantic ghost save for where the sweat reveals skin.
***
“I would forget my own name sometimes; don’t be offended if I forget your own. I remember you, that’s what matters. The rest is just - details, minutia. Besides, what’s in a name? You’re parents chose it, not you. Those syllables that label you - and not uniquely, either - hardly represent who you really are. But I remember you, who you were, who we-"
***
That’s the Freedom Market, specializing in the slave trade. A bit of a poetic name if you ask me, touting about the “selling of freedom” and all that, but it serves its purpose. Of course, you can also buy your freedom, if you’re a slave. Just keep in mind that any owner can outbid your offer.