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setting ;; the garnizon, 18:15 PM who ;; open
It took him almost two decades to realize that he worked best when he was intense pressure; it felt like controlled chaos in a sense, allowing him to align his priorities in a mental task list filled with parentheses, scratch outs, and occasional commentary that wasn’t very noteworthy when visited for a second time. Pen took to paper when his thoughts became too cluttered for cigarettes and alcohol to fix, though more often than not his scribbles were lost in translation, too difficult to decode, or sacrificed to the fire that fueled his next nicotine hit. As he leaned back against the wall to stretch out his legs, Sorin finally relieved his hand from the clutches of his disorganized thoughts and placed the pen back down along the spine of his notebook. His meal was mostly forgotten, as was the wine glass that trembled with each footstep that strained the floorboards beneath him. He lifted his drink first, taking a sip that, unfortunately, did not come with an epiphany he very well hoped for– though his spontaneous decision saved its delicate body from getting knocked over when an absentminded patron bumped into his table. Once his fountain pen made contact with the floor, several things happened at once: -The patron made a low noise that sounded slightly like a sharp inhale caught in his throat when he spotted his misdeed, regret already coiling his brows into furrowed little nubs -The object happily rolled itself to kiss the toe of someone else’s shoes, as if waiting for attention from a person who would give it a moment’s rest during normal sleeping hours -Sorin lazily crossed one leg over the other, catching the individual’s gaze momentarily before it flickered down to the pen next to their feet, then back up again. He silently waited for a response, noting that something so insignificant as picking up an item off the floor could speak volumes on the personality of a person. Slowly, he raised his glass to his lips once more. “I fail to align my taste with the likes of lamb today. What do you recommend?”
.
The dark streak on her hand did not scrub off. In the early days she had tried, with all manner of soaps and washcloths, to clean the perpetual grime that came with a mechanic’s profession. But Amarine knows better now, strolls into the garnizon without a thought to the smear of oil on her wrist. It’s not out of place. A handful of the younger men from the Boneyard accompany her inside. They hand her something strong, jostle each other as they navigate through the crowd, teeming with Volki and Volki-affiliated.
When one of the men knocks into her, sends her bumping into one of the tables, her anger flares.
She wheels round, barks at him in French.
“Bête!”
To send her bumping into a brigadier, no less! The coworker scrambles to pick up the pen, hands it to Amarine before muttering something sheepish, now wandering off in the direction of their usual table. She stares at Sorin, sets the pen down quietly at the table.
She’d watched him. She’d watched all of the Volki before, particularly at the Boneyard, delivering their shipments of artillery, wildly curious of the way they wielded power. Violence.
It was, in a word, fascinating.
“I don’t like lamb.” Amarine comments flatly, lip twitching in something unreadable.
“I think of their little faces and feel guilty.”
She ate all other kinds of meat readily- beef, poultry, fish. But there was something about lamb that made her stomach curdle, pricked some moral consideration that didn’t extend to most humans. It was funny. Her hometown was known for its foie gras — pale slices of flesh drowned in port wine, served at affluent tables. Never at her own family’s, though. The kosher butcher hadn’t carried it.
Amarine stood amongst the thicket of smoke and low chatter, thinking only that it was a blessing she hadn’t spilled his wine as well. Her eyes skate back to Sorin’s. He’d requested recommendations.
“The shashlik is good.”
Amarine thinks of grilled meat and her stomach tightens reflexively. It was, in truth, delicious.
