December 10, 2002.12.10.02. - chief two moons [rosa saks][atlantic city boardwalk]
(nakhti)
the air settles a crisp thirty-two about the bundled form, gloved hands in pockets pulled half-embrace keeping thigh-length black wool firmly wrapping slender body, the wind which rides oceanic waves finds its way to shore, tugging at the tails ofhis coat, coaxing inky hair into tangled disarray about the thick coils of dark gray scarfyet for the cold, the young man stands there, facing the black ocean while cheeks frost pink from the relentless breeze rushing past- he does not seem to mind
or perhaps he has found something else to narrow his attention beyond the confines of the cold, the crackle of waves sorting through the sand below combined with the wood-rattling rumble of the rollercoasters' engines run to generate power to the decorative lights behind him, it seems as it becomes some painted symphony in the night's sky far out above the ocean, someplace where the waves have yet to become frothy cresting tips but remain gentle undulations, someplace where the stars are the only glitter upon the water, or Luna's guiding light... none of the blitzkreig concoctions of Boardwalk neon which burn their way scatter-hazard on the obsidian broke-glass surface
a world untouched by the gauntleted hand of man combined with a world that exists only to please it - only in the inquisitive mind could there be some semblance of symmetry, some faint question asked which brings together the beautiful and the damned, and cares not which is labeled which, because it knows, beyond all else, they are but one and the same
(rosa)
The façade of the Chief Two Moon Meridas Herb Company was covered with vinyl siding, the first floor windows widened long ago, into service windows of Fat Frank's Fabulous Funnel Cakes sometime in the early 1980s, shortly after the advent of legalized gambling brought the dying resort town back to gaudy life. To be sure, Chief Two Moon's storefront was gaudy in its time, three stories fronting the Boardwalk, with wide picture windows lavishly decorated and a grand stone arch with the company's name carved from the sandstone itself. The second story featured four long rectangular stained glass windows set in smooth stone, and above them rose a grandiose third story that - despite its small stature - conspired to look like the sweeping arch of a palace, bordered by two crenellated little pseudo-towers. Fine, colorful tiles had been hand-set into the stone, forming geometric patterns that gave definition to the smooth face and framed - at the top - a trio of images carved into the façade itself, and then painted colorfully - a smiling sun, an unhappy moon and a portrait of Chief Two Moons himself, in full headdress, arms crossed proudly, head in slanted profile.Now little remains of the façade above the the vinyl siding and the awning stretched to shelter customers from the slanting of summer sun. Most of the tiles have fallen, and the colorful paint has long since worn away. The windows have been broken, most of the panes replaced with clear glass - or simply boarded over. As many times as she has walked the Boardwalk, she never saw the high arch or the elaborated little almost-towers bordering it, hidden from view of the average person by the wide awning installed by Fat Frank years ago.
The recent storm, however, proved too much for the old awning, which sagged beneath the weight of ice and then crashed in an errant wind. Workmen have already removed it from the Boardwalk as a hazard, and Frank has no doubt contacted his contractor to see to its replacement. In the meantime, though, the building behind and above is revealed - naked, timeworn, gaudy but somehow still noble.
From this angle (she is perched on the far railing, studying the façade in the fading light. Her camera hangs from one negligant hand, most of the roll of film has been used up) she can even make out a few words gracing the high arch that rises above the building's first floor: wo Moon Merid.
The wind rises briefly, flinging her scarf around and before her, briefly obscuring her vision until she drops the camera to rest heavy on its strap somewhere in her midsection. From the depths of her heavy winter coat, Rosa pulls a small notepad and writes down those words. With a sigh (another glance toward the naked storefront, the colorful vinyl siding and sliding service windows locked up tight and dark for the off-season) she squares her shoulders and rises, pausing to stamp some life into her cold, sleeping feet. The little gem brief revealed could be gone by the morrow, but she's growing cold and the walk will do her good.
(nakhti)
as she has found beauty in the remnants of the past brought forth by the storm, he is finding some level of understanding in the ever-changing face of the ocean before him, he finds a pleasure in the discovery of the new face birthed with each change of tide, how the land has been sculpted and teased into what they know it now, and how it will, one day, be totally unrecognizable as what they once knewshould they all live that long
it does not seem to draw on his mind, the pleasentries for his eyes exchanged to follow another craving, chin lifting as body turns back to the winds, as if to pluck some scent from the wind as it winds down the boardwalk, to find some vendor still open in the late freezing hours for the bare handful of people this far from the casinos and carnivals half-open for the weather, some little territory staked on the edges of prime land to wait for the needy to come, rejected by or bypassing the luckier vendors on the choicier breeding grounds
it is a slow pace, a slow liquid dance across the weathered boards apparent even beneath the shrouding wool, the brown-green swirls of eyes bounding ahead, as if watching some young puppy at play, but rather it is search, a meandering journey to fill at least one of his hungers tonight
(rosa)
It's a one stop shop, and he's not the only customer, even at this late hour, though they are few enough, pitifully few enough to be sure. Coffee and hot chocolate, bright lights behind the sagging face of the aluminum sided hut, hot dogs, nachos and - oddly enough, though perhaps not, considering the season - chestnuts still steaming from the roaster, hot in little white bags.Rosa doesn't notice her strange window shopper as she heads for the vendor - head down against the wind, bundled against the weather (heavy down coat, wrapping scarf, warm woolen cap, fingerless gloves with the mitten top now pulled over them for warmth), and likely he does not recognize her.
She does not lift her face to the sting of the wind until she has a cup of hot chocolate in one hand, a bag of chestnuts in the other ( - "Thanks, Lenny. Slow night?" - she murmurs absently, flashes a brief grin toward the vendor - ) and is stepping aside for the next customer, stuffing her bag of chestnuts into the deep left pocket of her winter coat when she notices him.
"Window shopping?" Perhaps he will remember her voice. Perhaps he will have to look close to recognize her. Perhaps he will not remember her at all. Only a square of pinkened skin - chafed by the wind - is visible through all the bundling. There is a faint suggestion of a grin, obscured by shadows and the wreathing steam from her styrofoam cup.
(nahkti)
there is coffee (he seems impatient for it to cool so he may guzzle it) and hot dog (with everything) purchased from the vendor through a game of charades, and he is already halfway through the late-night meal before her voice catches his attentionand hazel eyes turn towards her, perhaps he does not recognize what is shown to him through the warm winter's garb, or perhaps he attributed things to her she does not think show, chin lifts and throat stretches to swallow, even if he could not speak with his mouth empty, a smile growing beneath recognition's glimmer in those eyes (hello again) the smoothest juggle ever seen switches contents of hands to gesture at the ink hidden beneath his sleeves and gloves (I remember you from Rosalie's) then the food slightly raised in signaling answer (oh no, buying tonight)
and brows finally lift, gaze intent with his silent question (and you?)
(rosa)
Rosa's brow - mostly obscured by her woolen hat, which is tucked low over her bare scalp, low on her brow - almost to the faint wings of her eyebrows - and all the way down to the lobes of her ears, wrinkles in puzzlement. She can follow him easily enough, his body language is almost a liquid thing, cursive against the night, but the need for it is curious enough. Their encounter was so brief the night before that she assumed him - shy, perhaps - and tonight he was not looking at her when first she spoke, so could not have been reading lips.Still, perhaps she can be forgiven if her voice rises five decibels, if she lowers the lip of her styrofoam cup to reveal her mouth, if she takes care to enunciate more clearly, generous mouth nimbly forming the syllables she speaks with more care that usual instead of her usual absent almost-attention.
"My night off," she speaks, too, a tad more slowly than usual. "I'm always here, but I thought I would see what had been revealed by the storm." Gloved left hand descends to the camera, and down whispers quietly as the heavy frame shifts beneath her touch. "Then Lenny's chestnuts - well, I could smell them from a mile away. They're one of the things I love about the season."
(nakhti)
there is a chuckle that can only be described as a smiling sigh, the hand holding the steaming coffee rises to point at his ears before head shakes (I'm not deaf, I can hear you loud and clear even through the faintest whisper) a finger finding it's position vertical before curving lips (I am silent.)as she speaks, the rest of the hotdog disappears, not a mess is made, not a single sliver of relish spilled, it seems to have been inhaled and absorbed and the wrapper tossed towards the trashcan in less time than it should have taken to thoroughly chew and swallow a single bite - he must be very hungry - but never once has his attention turned away from her, nodding at the end (me, too) and while one hand concentrates on lifting the finally non-scalding coffee to his mouth, the other points to the camera, then sweeps back towards the boardwalk (what did you take pictures of?)
(rosa)
"Oh - " she watches him carefully, his hand as it rises to his ear, the shake of his head, the straight finger held briefly in front of the curve of his mouth. Hazel eyes - made brown, or darker by the shadows - flash downward, and blood rushes to her already chafed-red cheeks, for she has the grace to look abashed at her assumption. "I'm sorry, I hope I didn't offend you. I s'pose that'll teach me to assume things."An easy smile reasserts itself on her generous mouth a moment later, for she is not shy, just momentarily embarrassed by her lapse of judgment and the intrusive assumption she made. She takes advantage of the brief moment of awkwardness to sip her cooling hot chocolate and bathes her face in the warming steam as she continues, "There's a building two blocks down I've never noticed before - I've been here - what - seven years now? - and never noticed it before," her mouth quirks wry, and the expression - half-chagrin, half-amused pleasure - finds its way into her eyes. "Some old storefront hidden behind siding and so on. Only the first floor's hidden, but you couldn't see the rest from the Boardwalk for the awning. The awning fell or was blown down this weekend, I guess," here she offers an eloquent shrug, mostly swallowed by her voluminous winter coat, "whatever happened, I'm glad. It's always - I don't know - heartening to see traces of the past among the new."
(nakhti)
he waits until her eyes have chosen to rise again, the quirked grin and casual shrug speaking volumes (it's allright, no offense taken) the inability to hear and the inability to speak often go hand in hand, the mistake is common and not an insulthis interest rises as her words continue in his silence - and it is nearly physically visable, this sudden mercury bubbling and slinking up from his toes and through his posture, an alertness that slowly comes into focus, and she can see the intent curiosity in the swirling gaze, this wordless agreement which conveys more than his gestures could at this moment to the generosity of knowledge offered through mere glimpses of the past, and from the singular design inked into his arm, perhaps she could ascertain his interest in the ancients, in ancestors, in history of any kind whether recent or millennia old - a hunger kept at bay as a roiling storm behind the mountains
that is when his eyes dart away, in the direction she did not even mean to give by her body language, then swing back to her and irises slightly widen (show me?)
(rosa)
She is studying him so intently ( - the liquid way he moves, the sudden riot of focused alertness, the twist and cant of his body, with an artist's eye, and more: form and movement and the capture of movement and the play of shadows and light, lovely as they are, are not enough for her. There is something fleeting but essential - she cannot name it, she has no name for it, she touches it only briefly, only peripherally, only rarely - that is far from physical that can nevertheless be captured through the framework of a physical form: building, body, more perhaps - landscapes and sunsets and the wide curves of beaches - but buildings and bodies are her own narrow focus - ) that for a long moment she misses the meaning so appearant in the swepping gesture and widening gaze."Oh," she exclaims, startled from her absent reverie of phantom composition (shadows and light, light and shadows, and more, somewhere in the collision between the two.) "...you want to see? I'd be happy to show you. It's only a few blocks this way."
There's an absent nod, the movement contracted and shortened by the confines of winter clothes, but present for all that, before she starts walking in the direction, swiftly to keep away the cold.
(nahkti)
when one ability was never there to begin with, it does not hinder the development of the others, and while she loses herself in the artist's study of his movement and form, he, in turn, studies her, collecting small nuance of nature and information that he could never put into words, but they form a poetic picture for his mind alone, the slightest of sighed chuckle over coffee's steam which hides the grin at her distractionhe knows what he looks like, he knows how he moves, and he knows the reactions of others when they watch him, his kind, and there is a confidence in the silent boy from this security in his form, his balance, his amazing grace in fluid turn which follows her, change in direction whipping long strands of shadowed hair across his features, deftly drawn away by slender hand
while she walks to keep away the cold, he moves as if the very act of traversal were a celebration, a rhythm collision of silent music and vibrant soul, his steps are exact and smooth, not a beat missed by the avoidance of percieved ice or patch of thicker snow, intently focused ahead to this building that rises kraken from the darkness like some forgotten tomb from his desert sand home
(rosa)
There is a clarity to her features - a spare sort of delicacy - that is pretty enough, though easily lost without stark framing, like a desert bloom, or some small flower from the arctic tundra, which seems lovely in its own harsh land but is easily dismissed when viewed against showier blooms from more temperate climes. The clear absent calm is lost when she moves, when expression asserts itself, mobile and easy, she is read as easily as a one's reflection is a clear still pool.Two blocks - there is more she would add - about Atlantic City (her passion) or the ways in which we remain, it seems, even when we're gone, the way experience layers over experience and the recycled air we breathe makes us the richer for all that - but she holds back, at least until they are still and he can have the luxury of some semblance of reply. Two blocks (and one quarter of the way there, she pauses to slosh half her remaining hot chocolate from the styrofoam cup to spill in a veil of steam over the Boardwalk, to seep between the slats to the beach below, for she is not so easily graceful as he, and the sloshing liquid has been burning her calloused fingertips through the weave of woven wool mitten-gloves.) later she stops before the now half-naked funnel cake stand, and backs up to the railing opposite so their view is not wholly consumed by the tacky advertisements and gaudy siding that encase the high-ceilinged first floor.
"There, see?" her free hand dances up - mittened cap of the fingerless gloves hanging free by a button - indicating the sandstone façade above the stand below, with all its gaudy decorations. wo Moon Merid visible on the carved arch that rises above the ugly storefront. "I'm not sure what it was - I can't even begin to make it out - but maybe I can ferret it out with some research. Wonder what it looked like when they build it - someone must've had some money to spend, on all that stone."
(nakhti)
he joins her, against the railing, his own cup retained for he would never, ever discard food or drink, expectantly silent, swirling eyes lifted to study the storefronts of today and yesterday and years long passed, a contemplation over remaining sips of liquid which finally drain the cup - and only then does he seem ready and see it fit to discard the styrofoam into a nearby trashcanand as he looks back to her, his head tilts, something of that curiosity leaking into a sly smile, a temptation rests at the corners of the curve, nodding towards the building (let's find out now) as far be it from him to let any hidden secret lay at rest for longer than it should, weight shifting onto one foot in a half-step forward, still waiting for her to ascent and follow
(rosa)
Surprise - widened eyes, an errant smile that seems perhaps too startlingly wide for the occasion, the I'm lying smile of someone who has never lied well - demurral - the sweep of startlingly long lashes curving down over her eyes - and then, before she can she stop it from coming, a reckless shrug of assent."I'm game," she replies a moment later, though her body language has already told him everything he needs to know. Down whispers, the heavy camera thuds in rhythmic time to her tread on the dark boards, as she follows. As they gain the side of the building, though, she offers a laugh meant to swallow and cover the sudden frisson of nerves (how long since she did anything this reckless?). "Long as you promise we won't get caught. I'm a respectable business woman, after all."
And beneath her breath, the hummed snatch of a song - luck be a lady tonight - perhaps a nervous habit, a charm of sorts against disaster.
(nakhti)
as they cross the street, his hand lifts to his lips again, sly smile hidden behind the single vertical finger (so don't say anything to get us caught) that almost points to the playful wink beneath semi-tangled locks, he can see her nerves, he can see the electric tension that has evolved into her movements, into her scent, deeply underlying the tones of her voice, and the smile melts enigmaticthis is the excitement of knowledge, the sudden, unexpected excavation as the tomb wall crumbles to reveal the treasures inside that have been locked away for centuries - the sudden emptiness of the surrounding streets and the crumbling resolve of behavior to reveal what it is the Funnelcakes have hidden for decades, his steps are confident and smooth around the back of the building, searching for and finding the fire escape in the alley
for safety, it is covered by a metal sheet bolted to the ladder, the space between it and the wall to thin to allow anyone effective purchase to climb, to keep hooligans from breaking into a second story window, or perhaps jumping off the roof in some rumbling tumbling horseplay - and it is this he uses to his advantage, his momentum does not stop, reaching a slender arm behind to grasp the ladder, a boot wedging against brick to heave upwards... the freehand snapping around the first unsheilded rung, and slight weight is lifted, pulled, and thrown upwards until he crouches like some strange primate
boots settle at the top of the bolted sheild, his hand clasping a rung just two above, the other unfurls back towards the ground, fingers open in invitation, there's an honesty in his smile (trust me, i won't drop you) digits waggling in signal - he saw the weatherbeaten remnants of the three carvings near the roof, and he's intent on getting a closer look to decipher their clues
(rosa)
The distance between his open hand and the ground below is the definition of a leap of faith. The nervous edge of her smile melted into mere amusement - bemusement, perhaps - in the face of his silent joke, but returns now as she considers the slender young man offering her a hand up. She has no momentum, and so she uses the assistance of a convenient cinder block, climbing atop it and reaching, tip-tip-tip-toe, (and the nylon wheeze of her weatherproof down coat seems loud indeed to her ear) to grasp his offered hand.There's another snatch of melody - luck if you've ever been a lady to begin with - as she grasps his hand, hummed beneath the swell of breath with the same absent sort of attention she gives most things until she sees them in the right (shifting, slanting, lovely) light to give wings to her feet, to tip the odds in her favor, and up she goes, trusting her weight to his strength.
She's lighter than the heavy bundling would suggest. Beneath the wrapped, expansive coat, beneath the oversized sweater and the not-quite-fitted jeans, her figure is boyish and slim, though her hips have begun to assert themselves, to spread at last as early middle age, or perhaps old youth, approaches.
(nakhti)
the forarm and wrist she saw nights ago were slender, and the hand that wraps around her arm to give her leverage against his is just as slight, he is not gaunt, though the difference may mean a few pounds, but there is strength in his form, unfolding to use his legs to lift their combined weights up until she herself is able to gain purchase onto the ladder at the end of the movement as steady as well-oiled gears, he even made sure her camera would not bang against the metaland his attention seems to focus on her, in this breif, close moment that they cling to a ladder eye to eye, arm to arm, something seeming to ripple through his intrigue and excitement, just the smallest of disturbances in this sudden scrutiny - but it could only be to make sure she is secure - an unfelt touch tickling across her to sense the nature of her being
nala
rahjahand there is some kind of satisfaction in his eyes as their grip untwines, a smugness in the breif pull of lips that wanes into softened smile (ready?) but already he begins to move up the ladder, and while her downy coat whispers in the darkness, his own movements are as quiet as his voice, slinking soundlessly up the metal bars, disappearing onto the roof above, by the time she reaches the apex, he has already crossed three-quarters of the way to the swelling rise of the carvings against the safety barrier of the roof
by the time her feet have settled onto the tarred and graveled manmade ground, he is crouching behind the facade of the carvings, gloved hands wiping away the gathered leaves, dirt and snow, finding the artist's mark that always accompanies such creations, he waits until she is close enough to see, and he points to it.... then that arm lifts for a hand to wrap around the single spike that rises at the apex, and his body unfolds to lean around the highly arched venue and peer at what is left of the carving on the front of the building
(rosa)
If she thinks about it - and she will, perhaps, for a moment or two in passing as his strong, slender and silent figure rises swiftly in the darkness above her - she will consider the moment of attention no more odd than anything else about this silent young man. Versed as she is in the mysteries of life - the close held breaths, the secrets sunk into skin, the experience shielded and held behind eyes' trapping gaze - she is ignorant of the larger mysteries, the great secrets of her world. And so it is nothing, merely a close attention to her wellbeing that ripples between them, that opens something of her own soul to his brief, close reading.As he wraps his hand around the spike at the apex of the roof, she settles to peruse the marker's mark on the stone beneath. Deft, light fingers travel over the carving, and a quick grin finds its way to her mouth.
"I know him," she murmurs, pitching her voice just so, to carry to him but hopefully no farther. She continues, clarifying, "The stone mason, I mean. I know him. He did a fair amount of work around here, though most of it was lost. Someone found his logs, though, and donated them to the Atlantic City library, so with the address and year, I can probably find the entries there."
He cannot see the satisfied smile on her face, but he can hear the delight in her voice - her words lilt upward, tumble over each other faster and faster - as she settles back on her haunches and watches him lean over the highest arch of the façade. "I couldn't see the details - I should've come in the morning, the sun from the east might've revealed it - but I had errands, and by the time I was here the front was in shadow.
"What is it?" she asks, as if she had already forgotten that he cannot reply to her, cannot reply to her in words, at least, to describe what he sees. "...oh, nevermind. When you're down, I'll take a look."
(nakhti)
as she speaks, his body finds a comfortable balance on the wide, protective ledge, and his hand rescinds its claim on the spike, gloves removed and suddenly flung back onto the roof as little black landing birds, the black patterns on his left hand circle his wrist and slim to a point at middle finger knuckle, seen in the moon's half-light as it reaches back to search and dive into the coat pocketa small notepad is withdrawn, and as her words continue, papers flip, and pen begins its trail over pale blue lined white sheets - he does not draw what it is, he draws what he sees at the strange angle, some random congolmeration of faint lines which somehow create a whole, a further part of this discovering game, slowly etching what the carving seems to be, and seeming, himself, completely comfortable in this precarious perch
once finished, the pad and pen clasped between his teeth, hands reaching back to hook over the edge and pull himself back onto the roof, crouch leaving him leaning back against the wall he just lay over, brows furrow, in study of the sketch as the pad is removed and rotated in nimble fingers until up is up and down is down and an image is made of the lines, brows lifting in miniscule victory leap (aha!) and the letters she showed him earlier are written across the now-bottom of the page, several more added after a moment's thought, and he turns the pad to show her the image of the proud indian cheiftan
cheif two moon merid
(rosa)
"Oh," her calloused finger taps on the paper, bare nail sensibly cut as short as it can be without drawing blood, "that's rather good, you know."The light plays strange across the rooftop, some ambient combination of colored lights from the closest casinos, with the amusement piers in the distance - mostly hidden by the high arch of the building, only the tallest of rollercoasters visible rising high into the black night sky above the black winter's sea - scattered multicolored stars. What strange constellations they make. Her finger trails down from the angled sketch to the words he added at the bottom, and her smile widens into a grin. "I think you've got that right, too. And with all that - we'll definitely be able to figure out what this was. Chief Two Moon - it's hard to imagine native Americans here, it's so thoroughly - well - colonized.
"Maybe it was some kind of wax museum," she continues, speculating quietly now. Some of her attention is withdrawn from the immediate, absorbed in the game of making sense of the gathered clues. "Or a tobaconnist. They always have carved Indian Chiefs outside their stores. No idea why, though. Or maybe it was just his place, he would've been quite successful to have the Abrams brothers doing the carving. They were really quite skilled. They'd probably be remembered for their work if most of it hadn't been torn down in the late 70s to make way for the casinos and everything that came with them."
(nakhti)
there's a smile that flickers across his features at the compliment - when you're only able to communicate through pen and paper with a majority of the population you encounter, drawing skills get honed and developed, more of a neccessity that became a talent, and he offers this soft grin (thank you) in the flickering lights of the multicolored constellations that reach the rooftop and invade the shadows that he seems so comfortably crouched withinthe excitement that had been in her voice is reflected in hazel eyes, the challenge of the puzzle, the knowlege rewarded at the end of the maze, he searches what he knows about the city they've come to currently exist in, but nothing comes to mind of what this building could have been, so there are only nods in response to her hypotheses
then his head tilts, in realization, finding that they have wound up on a roof together after a second encounter, there is something important that must be done, and the pad removes itself from beneath her nail, page ripped free and handed over by right hand adorned with two rings the color of brushed brass - around his thumb a singular round band, middle finger wearing a flatter band scarred with heiroglyphs, and then the pen returns to paper before it's shown to her again, head tilting as he looks to her curiosly
what is your name?
(rosa)
Fine brows - plucked into a winged arch that flatters the fine bones of her face - rise, twinned in surprise not at the question, but that she has gone so long and so far with a silent stranger without asking or answering such a question. Her cheeks (and the tip of her nose, incidentally) are so reddened by the cold that it is difficult to see the heat rising in her face, though the wry twist of a grin is telltale enough."Rosa," she replies after taking a moment to swallow her amusement. The shallow half-circle of the mitten-top is pushed off her right hand, to flop against the top of her mitten-gloves as she holds out her hand to shake his. It seemed a thing to do when introductions were given, after all. "Rosa Luxembourg Kleineman-Saks. And no - " - before he asks, everyone does - " - my parlor's not named after me. It's just a coincidence. So - " chin lifting with the question, a faint gesture in his general direction, the momentum mostly swallowed by her winter scarf. " - what's yours?"
(nakhti)
the amusement is well reflected in his eyes, in the curve of cheeks above his smile, his hand, slender and wirey, already chilled from the absence of gloves, abandons the pen and reaches to wrap strong around hers in definitive shake, then ink lays across paper once morenakhti amose
pleasure to "meet" youthen after she has read it, the pad is returned to his pocket, and hands move to point to himself, then away in gesture through the air, fluid dance creating a specific symbol (nakhti) - the breifest of pauses - then the gestures continue, pointing at her as eyes wander in a pattern of thought, soon refocusing as one more word is signed (rose) as the closest approximation to her name without spelling it letter by letter
the grin once more quirks, yet another tidbit of knowledge learned and shared
this is when his body unfolds, boots planting against the gravelly roof and muscles stretching from the crouch, there's the gentlest of tugs on the sleeve of her coat, he can tell by the flush that rises to wind-bitten cheeks (it's cold) nodding towards the ladder at the far end of the roof, once more weight shifts to one leg, waiting for her to join and follow
(rosa)
"I'm sure I won't pronounce it right," she replies after reading his name from the paper, as she releases his hand and tips the hooding crescent of her mitten-gloves back over the bare tips of her fingers to capture and recirculate some of her warmth. "So I'm tempted to call you John." There's laughter in her voice, and a wink to soften the words themselves. "Naaak-tee? Nachti" and so on, cycling through several pronunciations until she finds one of which he approves. "The pleasure's mine. I feel about twelve again, and that's a good thing."Her generous smile remains as he demonstrates the symbols, as he suffers through her own attempts to recreate them. Deft as her fingers are (and deft they are, quick and light and fine her touch), they are hampered by the close weave of heavy woolen gloves, muffled by the mitten top. The generous smile remains as he rise (and she rises) and he stretches (and she stretches) all the cold stiff kinks from his form.
She's two steps behind him on the roof, and several rungs above him on the fire escape, though between them they only sound like one person climbing down (she has not his gift for silence, the swift sure bodily grace of form. What grace she has is gifted to her hands, and that is, after all, all she needs.). He leaps down soundlessly, but she hums a tune - luck let a gentleman see, how nice a dame you can be - as she braves the last jump (don't let me break a leg) and lands noisily but intact on the alley floor.
"Thank you for the little adventure," she remarks as she rights herself, lifting her chin to meet his gaze. "I'm going to do some research tonight and tomorrow morning. If you'd like, come by sometime and I'll let you know what I find out about Chief Two Moons Merid and his building," - here she reaches out to pat the brick affectionately, wool catching on the rough mortar, two reddish tufts defecting to warm the bulding as she pulls her hand again - "here."
(nakhti)
the amusement is ripe in his eyes, through her attempts at his name, through her attempts at the sign - but he knows knowledge is a process, so there is infinite patience at the gestures and sounds, and an emphatic nod as she gets it right (nahk-tee) and motion barely breaks the stride in the sweep to gather gloves which find their way onto his hands before the chill of descending metalsoundless is his landing, even the sudden gesture to reach out and help maintain her balance seems planned, expected, and infinitely smooth in some mindless, inherant grace - for him it seems there could be no other way, the pull of another smile and a single gesture (you're welcome) fading into a nod at her offer
fingers tap his left forarm and the ink hidden beneath warm wool (Rosalie's) then eight are held for her to see (8 pm tomorrow) brows lifting to ask her permission if the time is right, a nod as she agrees, and the woman and young man each turn to disappear into the shadows offered by the night
Posted by nakhti at December 10, 2002 12:00 AM
CommentsPost a comment