-.- | hearth oneshot

The season never changes. Not in a way that means much.

There's the heat:
The air is sickly, putrid, with a river of sweat running down my face. The steam from the pot turns the kitchen to a sauna - Abe, always on poultry, smacks me on the shoulder with his dirty hands, jokes about how that stew's only salty because you stick your nose right in it.

I laugh, and take two steps back.

We make sure the windows are wide open, but I wonder if all that does is pull the sun directly into the room, shining brilliantly on the wooden floor. We get more drink orders than food - our bartender doesn't come in until 5:30, and that's if they come in at all. I do what I can - and I'm not bad in the slightest, but I'm not a professional. I can tell from the way their eyebrows raise as they take a sip; Abe tells me I'm too heavy on the good stuff, as if that's a bad thing. Ma doesn't ask how I know about it.

When I get home, I shove my liquor further under the bed - at the farthest nook, where the spiders sleep.

Everyone is always too close. The heat radiates off of them in waves, pulsing with the beat of a drum. We laugh as we celebrate but it's with a strained voice, a gasp of relief as we stumble by the beach on our way to get some french fries. Sometimes Enzo and I stay there, for a while, sitting at the shore as the waves crash. The boats bob in the distance, barely visible in the dark. I'd like to lace his fingers with mine, but it's a different kind of touch - not like the sloppy shit we're used to.

Too.. you know.

I don't go there alone.

The wind cackles.




There's the rain:
The beads of water swell before sliding down the windowpane. The water smacks against my skin, nipping my cheek as I dash towards the pier. If I forget to switch out my shoes, the canvas might fall apart, and I'll get an earful before the sun's risen up, higher than the clouds.

Ma makes the menu. She won't listen to my suggestions, even though I'm the one cooking it, the one serving it, the one seeing the look on their faces. That's fine, I guess. I don't want to make any waves. I was never a good swimmer.

We cluster together with house music and acoustic guitars, whisper jokes about a performance gone awry. The coffee goes well with the vibe, but not with my sleep schedule; when I finally lie down I stare at the ceiling for hours, willing the night to end. It doesn't, and I'm stuck listening to gentle breaths, feeling air against the back of my neck. Or it's the silence, louder than an army.

When the storm renders The Bowline near empty, the power goes out. We're left scrambling, serving the shrimp cocktail before it spoils, the fried cod before the batter goes soggy. The customers are understanding, but unmoved, no matter how many smiles I shoot them. We give them discounts we can't afford - in the short run, Ma will say. Look ahead, to when we've done so much good that the bad is outweighed by a thunderstorm.




I feel like a thunderstorm. Without the spark.

I don't think it's normal, but it's been too long: I brew a fog out of potions and tinctures, but I know it'd still be there, even if the pantry was bare.

I laugh as easily as I breathe, but it used to mean something.