TLDR: I would die for her.
Taverns seem holier than temples. More honest in their perusal of one’s gold, belief, and satisfaction. However, I say this with no awareness whether temples ask their congregants whether they are satisfied. Taverns seem to forgive my ignorance, be it of self, reason, and belief. While temples demand all three from me.
Do they? I’m not one to visit temples.
I look to the entrance, an oak sign with an embossed « Crook’s Nook ». It’s not carved. Like a statement out from nothing rather than a statement that digs into the infinite for some negative space. Fuck, I must be tiring. What does that even mean? An emergent tavern from the unknown, rather than a tavern that exists despite the unknown. A building rather than a digging. A carvin, y’know? Does it matter? I don’t know. All I know is that it’s embossed rather than carved or etched, alright?
For that matter, is it the crook’s neck that’s the nook? Their Stash? Their Haven? Cleavage? Something lower? Ugh. I always go there, don't I? I hate myself, but I don’t linger on myself. In fact, that’s meta, like I’m expecting someone to be in there. A wayward dream of order in the khaosmos of my existence. The possibility of rejection assails me. But, at least it means I can participate in the basics of a tavern. I’m having feelings for someone I haven’t met yet. That’s the blurring, I guess. I try real hard to truly imagine the freedom of someone. In the end though, I’m the writer, An exegesis from a piece of visual art. Mixed media, really, since there was a description along with it. But, I’m being meta again. Ugh. It’s the kind of leap I wish I could do. A view of my own existence that can tell me the rules of the epochs. Of course, I just crash back to my own perspective, and we go on. once again. *Noch einmal*.
I’ve never looked for nooks. I’ve created altars, libraries and laboratories for myself, but nooks. It arouses comfort, familiarity, and secrecy. I’m still staring at the sign. I feel the snow blow by. The wood creaks in a silence only possible in a sea of snow. A gentle breeze. Much nicer than my thoughts. Something I can’t control. Weather seems more free than the characters. There is some belief in me that one can affect others; a communication between unknowns that give rise to something wonderful. Talking to the weather usually doesn’t mean it’ll listen.
I’m still staring. So I sigh, and I blink. I walk in. The usual wood and metal. Some of the planks are old, others not. A history to it, y’know? Patrons drinking, like they’re more part of this world than you’ll ever be. They came here before you. Where were you? Elsewhere. While I could have been there.
The name of the tavern has completely disassociated within me. What should I be seeing? A whole context arising out of associations of meaning. Of course, it’s more because this is about meeting a character, rather than establishing a world as such. But what world does she inhabit? A question usually un-answerable in a purely linguistic way. So, I look for a table. A round one. I want equals. A blank one filled only by what it is, full of potential.
I’m finally sitting. Drowning in words. But not in the ones I wish I were drowning in.
The ones where I see her. Herself. In her uniform, lost in her world with utmost duty. The sight of the subtle shades of her skin and blisters. The fluff and heft of her ears. The darkness of her eyes, and the gold within.
I am lost in her presence. I am an outsider. A cold alienation suffuses me, Is it a fact, or a feeling? I don’t care. I just want to perceive. She walks towards me with a *Joie de vivre*. It’s the best. Infectious, and instantly, then you want to be a lifelong patron of this nook. I feel my heart beat. I feel the subtle warmth of the air begin to settle on my face. I feel alive after a long sleep of the soul.
« Jig’ya vrena mes a get? »
Chewy. Gnawy. Mangy, and ultimately flowy. Saves me from putting words, or rather, pre-packaged meaning in her mouth. The language of her world colliding into my soul. Her fangy smile, her yip, and her curiosity rips at my indifference. I melt inside as my face remains stern. A blink is enough to throw my emotions out into nothingness. If she notices any expression change in me is something I lack the ability to know. I’m still staring at her.
She’s concerned for me. The silence is more telling than any phrase. The changes in her mannerisms is like a warm stream. I still feel welcome. Maybe she knows I’m not trying to break boundaries. She has other things to do than fret over one patron, but enough sense to know that trauma can run deep. Of course, it’s more about not being able to *speak* to her. I tap the table.
She looks at my motion. If I had another word on the tip of my tongue, it wouldn’t have seemed so strange. By doing this, I am enforcing consistency. A table, will always be «… », her response. But then I think of dwarves which have 150 ways to name gold, and I realize how deep my mistake can run. Embarrassed, I correct myself, and tap again.
« Table of mixed substance in an unknown world within a tavern surrounded by me and yours in an uncertain time being pointed to through my language among other things and occasions we cannot conceive of.»
I listen to myself. I laugh anxiously. I truly thought I was funny. But the absurdity was too much as I silently sob into my hands. The tears are comforting. The imaginary space rendering the catharsis possible. Her gaze is seasoned. She’s seen some shit. Her kind usually do. But that’s my assumption. My madness of the moment. She just touches my right arm.
« Yeah ». I say, looking into her eyes. A smidge of existential confidence in my tone. An imminent ‘I’m alright’.
*This is why we have menus. *
If there’s cosmic horror. What’s cosmic comedy? At the least, I thought that was funny. In any case. I would die for her. True story.
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