you have (1) unheard message ; sable/indy blitz
Apr 7, 2024 11:07:29 GMT -5
Post by arx on Apr 7, 2024 11:07:29 GMT -5
INDIGO AUCLAIR
I remember the first time I saw him. I doubt he could recall when he first met me, but I'd just gotten my first job and smoked my first cigarette with my first ever boss all in one go. ("Nice try, blondie. Real good effort, but there is no way you know what you're doing here.") And she was right.
I thank her everyday for not minding my very obvious incompetence. I would've never been able to see him for that second time. And I remember it was the second time, too, that made him stick in my mind like a song.
I saw him through the service window. I didn't know his name yet, of course. But I remember he didn't wait to be seated and that I'd remembered him for his mannerisms. The way he looked over his shoulder and managed to pluck at the straws too loudly. He didn't do much but talk without a filter and look a little like he was lost all bundled up in a booth near the emergency exit.
Sounded like a song though.
But kitchens were loud, the ovens hummed at the same baritone as me, the sizzling reached a roar, the faucets ran into deep sinks that rumbled if you didn't bash the fire extinguisher against the exhaust pipes out back, and all the while dishes clattered against each other and patrons' voices overlapped.
It's only years later that I realize that he never could've possibly heard me.
Ives called it, Indy's Diner'. And I had scolded her for saying:
("Hey, just- maybe call him, Sable? Not-") I remember hating having to say it. I remember wishing it were true. ("Not 'Indy's' Sable.") My sister always pretended she wasn't good at something and then made me look like I had two left feet that clearly had never known what they were doing.
I can't believe the way his lips burn scars of scripture I never had to memorize into my skin. The rain grows colder, falls heavier. I pull him closer, find myself standing because I still don't feel close enough to him. When I whisk my fingers through his hair, raindrops wet his scalp—the only baptism worth a damn.
"You're gonna regret this."
I taste salt and so I come up for air—"No."—but don't stay at the surface for long. I shake my head—No.—repeat the word softer, breathe it against the goosebumps along his jawline—"No."—and again—"No."—when I thumb his tears from his cheeks.
And when I press my smile to his lips.
No.
He's never been more wrong.
I thank her everyday for not minding my very obvious incompetence. I would've never been able to see him for that second time. And I remember it was the second time, too, that made him stick in my mind like a song.
I saw him through the service window. I didn't know his name yet, of course. But I remember he didn't wait to be seated and that I'd remembered him for his mannerisms. The way he looked over his shoulder and managed to pluck at the straws too loudly. He didn't do much but talk without a filter and look a little like he was lost all bundled up in a booth near the emergency exit.
Sounded like a song though.
We were in the diner.
I thought to myself,
'Well, he's familiar.'
He didn't know it just yet,
but I adored the way his eyes bound me
so tightly,
and were quite alright
all intertwined with mine.
I thought to myself,
'Well, he's familiar.'
He didn't know it just yet,
but I adored the way his eyes bound me
so tightly,
and were quite alright
all intertwined with mine.
But kitchens were loud, the ovens hummed at the same baritone as me, the sizzling reached a roar, the faucets ran into deep sinks that rumbled if you didn't bash the fire extinguisher against the exhaust pipes out back, and all the while dishes clattered against each other and patrons' voices overlapped.
It's only years later that I realize that he never could've possibly heard me.
Ives called it, Indy's Diner'. And I had scolded her for saying:
'Indy's Sable'.
("Hey, just- maybe call him, Sable? Not-") I remember hating having to say it. I remember wishing it were true. ("Not 'Indy's' Sable.") My sister always pretended she wasn't good at something and then made me look like I had two left feet that clearly had never known what they were doing.
I can't believe the way his lips burn scars of scripture I never had to memorize into my skin. The rain grows colder, falls heavier. I pull him closer, find myself standing because I still don't feel close enough to him. When I whisk my fingers through his hair, raindrops wet his scalp—the only baptism worth a damn.
"You're gonna regret this."
I taste salt and so I come up for air—"No."—but don't stay at the surface for long. I shake my head—No.—repeat the word softer, breathe it against the goosebumps along his jawline—"No."—and again—"No."—when I thumb his tears from his cheeks.
And when I press my smile to his lips.
No.
He's never been more wrong.