𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 / * @cleofisher
date and time: october 9th at half-past 5PM setting: a nearby cafe, popular but niche enough
LILLIAN ENTERS THE CAFE, WET, and stands in line with water rolling from the slick surfaces of her raincoat. it hangs long and loosely belted at her waist; she leans against her umbrella as if it were a cane. the weather makes old injuries ache and throb as if the claps of thunder are surging through her bones. somehow, the cafe remains lively despite the weather. she admires it for that even while wearing a glower. as she is frowning and surveying the room, wishing to whack the ankles of those slow and indecisive people ahead of her line, she spots a familiar face at a familiar table.
in place of the raindrops, she feels dread pooling wet and cold around her boots.
is this how i make antiquity feel ? she quashes the wonder: no. i’m made of different things. fear reacts in me differently. guilt reacts differently. i am not afraid; i am anxious and angry for it.
she contemplates leaving. the door is nearby, and there are enough people seeking refuge from the storm to make her presence insignificant. even the sound of the bell ringing, which might otherwise attract a glance, is muffled by the sound of talk and storming. lillian is straightening and lifting her cane when she catches cleo’s wandering gaze. they don’t make eye contact, not really, but lillian knows she has been seen.
to leave now would be to concede something crucial.
she puts her hands into the warm pockets of her rain jacket. the umbrella swings on her wrist as she walks forward to take her place at the counter. her order rolls out as usual, and the barista makes quick work of replacing her crisp cash with a steaming mug. they usually give styrofoam cups at this point in the day — eager to avoid washing the big, ceramic things they use before noon — but she always receives hers in a proper mug. she never has to remind them, either. with the mug in one hand and her umbrella still hooked around her wrist, she marches over that familiar table. it feels as if she has stepped into the past, footstep after footstep down a route she has taken countless times. they always sat beside the wall so lillian could work in peace; she hates the way strangers cast rogue glances as they passed behind her back. nothing about her work is secret — not academic work — yet her peevishness is unrelenting.
her chair was open, and she sat in after taking time to hang her items on one of the wall’s convenient hooks. the jacket, the umbrella, her scarf, her purse with its wet leather outside. they dripped down the wall, like it was sweating, as she sat down across from cleo. in the space of the small table where cleo’s things were not, lillian folded her arms — after pushing up her sweater sleeves, of course. a little diamond bracelet was around her left wrist, glimmering as if it, too, were rain-moistened. it was only the lighting.
❛ you weren’t at sayre’s, ❜ she says in greeting. her voice is not accusatory, but she sinks her teeth into the fact as it is presented. ❛ alistair finds you ghostlike as of late. you aren’t haunting me, though, are you ? ❜
