[ tea is not being made. it takes alhaitham a moment in the murk to understand why. they say the best stories are ones not worth repeating, the ones that each life lived knows down to its very marrow its beat and turn. alhaitham looks at the repetition of one such story standing there in his doorway. the motion-activated lights flicker on one after another, carving a path into the chiaroscuro of alhaitham's living room. in direct opposition: the spotlight lingering upon flaxen gold, the moonlit silver in the living room before the grid of a chessboard. surprise has always been worn in glinting threads upon the tapestry of alhaitham's self-expression: the barest flicker of his gaze, the curve of his eyes widening just enough to catch the moonlight. and then - no more.
it had not been the expected disappointment. alhaitham does not know what it means. but kaveh, the orphan, stands in alhaitham's entranceway like a wayward deer, LEDs refracting off of the deep, sanguine red of his eyes the way saline lights do in the unfettered dark. he is wearing little. alhaitham is aware of the service he has called and been calling. the two are congruent, but without true meaning: what alhaitham searches for is not relief, but release. tonight, however, can only be described by a word that has yet to be invented. alhaitham does not know if it will be, or by whom.
still, the gaze lingers, before it flickers downward. three chess pieces are moved in succession before alhaitham speaks again, his voice echoed and clear across the length of the apartment: ]
I said to make tea. [ the click of piece against board. it reverberates, as it has always done so, like clipped moonlight.
no subject
it had not been the expected disappointment. alhaitham does not know what it means. but kaveh, the orphan, stands in alhaitham's entranceway like a wayward deer, LEDs refracting off of the deep, sanguine red of his eyes the way saline lights do in the unfettered dark. he is wearing little. alhaitham is aware of the service he has called and been calling. the two are congruent, but without true meaning: what alhaitham searches for is not relief, but release. tonight, however, can only be described by a word that has yet to be invented. alhaitham does not know if it will be, or by whom.
still, the gaze lingers, before it flickers downward. three chess pieces are moved in succession before alhaitham speaks again, his voice echoed and clear across the length of the apartment: ]
I said to make tea. [ the click of piece against board. it reverberates, as it has always done so, like clipped moonlight.
then, as if in afterthought: ] Can you cook?