freida s. ngu d9 fin cbd 3/3

A rhythmic strumming strikes a chord as the sky turns peach. Outside the speakeasy she sits, picks taped to each finger as she plays her guzheng - a hand-me-down from her late aunt, she'll tell you with a grin. Wait, no, she won it in a drinking contest. When countered, her eyebrows reach towards the ceilings and her scoffs are just short of a soliloquy. Then she laughs, tapping a rhythm with her foot.

When it's cold she worms her way indoors "To save bathroom visitors from embarrassment," she'll say. She'll call upon the spirits to bless the bar, rouse up a tale told "eons ago, by the women who sat on thrones of solid gold." Of course, she delivers. She might even tell some sage advice at the end of her act (while smoking on "a pERFECTLY LEGAL variety of sage found under the hollows of an oak tree"), reminding you to "knock three times on a cement block or the spirits will come knocking at your door", or "go check on your mother. Because she'd appreciate it".

The coins she collects go under her pillow, her shoe, her floorboards, her hat. And she'll skedaddle back to where she came from. When her presence is gone perhaps they mock her strangeness, or wonder if she ate dinner that night. They don't know that it's waiting for her if she raids the orphanage fridge without getting caught, or that the spare change she gets she spends on the other kids: an occasional sweet or investment towards a new pair of shoes. They don't know how she's told each day to quit goofing, to sell that hunk of junk for a pretty penny.

All they know is a chord, a chuckle, and the scent of sage, skunkier than usual.