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Since these days are of zombidays and ridiculous nights of tossing under covers and then wearing scarves off to zombie-land (i'm pretending it's winter), i think tonight was just me getting down to things I've not been doing for weeks - wrapping my books, finalizing the booklist and writing something in response to a fiction exercise on _chickenscratch
Well, if you're interested:
She said, "Green," her tone careless, her eyes distracted by the young man who had stepped out of the droopy-looking building across the street; she waved her hand absent-mindedly at the pyramid of fruits, "give me about, five or so."
She was eating her own hair - the wind, maybe - but her voice was curt, slightly cold, reminded me of my mother’s, give me something to do, she used to say and she used to wave her hands the same way too, without looking at me or acknowledging me but she had the same throaty voice, something that sounded like running your palms against cold plastic, the same sort of feeling. She had pushed her hair out of her face. "Uh, mam, we’ve got no green ones." I told her, quite politely too - James had warned me not to be rude and I’ve been doing quite well, at least since I’ve had one woman throw her banana at me - I even smiled at her.
"What?" She was slightly irritated now. I can see it, her eyes were dusty, too many drunken nights; her skin was sort of taut, not soft like my mother’s but my mother had been a farmer’s daughter so that’s different. Her hair was slapping against her neck, rough lines, many of them, there were many rough lines on her neck. She waved and smiled at the man now dashing across the road. There were many cars, I saw, expensive cars, I hated expensive cars. My father used to say cars were a bad habit and boy was he right, look at all these people, cars and smoke and dust and rough skins. She turned to look at me, "What did you say?"
"We’ve got no green apples, mam."
She sighed loudly and looked at the fruits in a hurried fashion. "All right, all right, give me some apples, oranges, and whatever you’ve got." She fished out some money and placed them snappily on the crates. She was grabbed from behind, there was a loud giggling, my right ear hurt. I packed some fruits into the yellow-colored plastic bags James had customized for his shop - lovely things they were, bright yellow like grass and when you rustle them, they sang. The dusty man pushed his face into hers and she beamed happily, "We’re having fruit salad tonight." He nodded and removed lint, or something, from his shoulder and my right ear hurt.
"We’ve run out of green apples mam." I told her politely and she grabbed the bag from me with her free hand (the other in his, of course). "Where’s my change?" The guy stuck his hand out and I dropped coins into his palms, trying to hit the lines of fortune he had but the coins only fell softly onto his skin. She reached into the bag and frowned, "no green apples?"
"We’ve run out of green apples mam. I gave you three red ones." James would be proud of me. There were lines between her eyebrows; the man was shifting on his feet - tap, tap, tap, annoying leather shoes, father used to tell me about the evils of people who wore leather - cows were skinned for his shoes. "Oh all right then." She said, taking her hand out of the plastic bag, which of course, rustled it and my right ear hurt. "I don’t like red apples, honey." Tap, tap, tap. She touched his arm, "I’ll make juice out of them, and they taste exactly like the green ones." He looked out onto the road, tap, tap, tap, "yeah, sure, I’m hungry, let’s go." He grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the road.
"Mam."
She turned, her eyes a pale brown of worry - I hope he chokes on his apple juice - she let his hand go and walked back to me. "I’ll give you two more apples, then you can have more apple juice." She pressed her lips together and touched the skin beneath her eyes with the back of her finger, "for free?" Such innocence, she reminded me of my mother who used to push sheep and pick flowers between her fingers for the vase she got from my father for her thirtieth birthday. She reached for two more apples, her fingers pressing into the soft skin, like they would on the man’s palm; she waved them at me, "thank you." She smiled a warm smile like my mother would have smiled at me when I came back from the fields and smelt like cows and rain; there was dust in her wake as she took off after the man, tap, tap, tap, my ears hurt and I knew James would not be happy. Two apples, oh boy.
p/s: I'm still at kissingrose.
pp/s: I've been spending too much online - I think it's about time to terminate the online-banking account, well, about.
Well, if you're interested:
She said, "Green," her tone careless, her eyes distracted by the young man who had stepped out of the droopy-looking building across the street; she waved her hand absent-mindedly at the pyramid of fruits, "give me about, five or so."
She was eating her own hair - the wind, maybe - but her voice was curt, slightly cold, reminded me of my mother’s, give me something to do, she used to say and she used to wave her hands the same way too, without looking at me or acknowledging me but she had the same throaty voice, something that sounded like running your palms against cold plastic, the same sort of feeling. She had pushed her hair out of her face. "Uh, mam, we’ve got no green ones." I told her, quite politely too - James had warned me not to be rude and I’ve been doing quite well, at least since I’ve had one woman throw her banana at me - I even smiled at her.
"What?" She was slightly irritated now. I can see it, her eyes were dusty, too many drunken nights; her skin was sort of taut, not soft like my mother’s but my mother had been a farmer’s daughter so that’s different. Her hair was slapping against her neck, rough lines, many of them, there were many rough lines on her neck. She waved and smiled at the man now dashing across the road. There were many cars, I saw, expensive cars, I hated expensive cars. My father used to say cars were a bad habit and boy was he right, look at all these people, cars and smoke and dust and rough skins. She turned to look at me, "What did you say?"
"We’ve got no green apples, mam."
She sighed loudly and looked at the fruits in a hurried fashion. "All right, all right, give me some apples, oranges, and whatever you’ve got." She fished out some money and placed them snappily on the crates. She was grabbed from behind, there was a loud giggling, my right ear hurt. I packed some fruits into the yellow-colored plastic bags James had customized for his shop - lovely things they were, bright yellow like grass and when you rustle them, they sang. The dusty man pushed his face into hers and she beamed happily, "We’re having fruit salad tonight." He nodded and removed lint, or something, from his shoulder and my right ear hurt.
"We’ve run out of green apples mam." I told her politely and she grabbed the bag from me with her free hand (the other in his, of course). "Where’s my change?" The guy stuck his hand out and I dropped coins into his palms, trying to hit the lines of fortune he had but the coins only fell softly onto his skin. She reached into the bag and frowned, "no green apples?"
"We’ve run out of green apples mam. I gave you three red ones." James would be proud of me. There were lines between her eyebrows; the man was shifting on his feet - tap, tap, tap, annoying leather shoes, father used to tell me about the evils of people who wore leather - cows were skinned for his shoes. "Oh all right then." She said, taking her hand out of the plastic bag, which of course, rustled it and my right ear hurt. "I don’t like red apples, honey." Tap, tap, tap. She touched his arm, "I’ll make juice out of them, and they taste exactly like the green ones." He looked out onto the road, tap, tap, tap, "yeah, sure, I’m hungry, let’s go." He grabbed her hand and pulled her towards the road.
"Mam."
She turned, her eyes a pale brown of worry - I hope he chokes on his apple juice - she let his hand go and walked back to me. "I’ll give you two more apples, then you can have more apple juice." She pressed her lips together and touched the skin beneath her eyes with the back of her finger, "for free?" Such innocence, she reminded me of my mother who used to push sheep and pick flowers between her fingers for the vase she got from my father for her thirtieth birthday. She reached for two more apples, her fingers pressing into the soft skin, like they would on the man’s palm; she waved them at me, "thank you." She smiled a warm smile like my mother would have smiled at me when I came back from the fields and smelt like cows and rain; there was dust in her wake as she took off after the man, tap, tap, tap, my ears hurt and I knew James would not be happy. Two apples, oh boy.
p/s: I'm still at kissingrose.
pp/s: I've been spending too much online - I think it's about time to terminate the online-banking account, well, about.