The Altonevers (53 page)

“
Anna!” he
shouts.

“
What? my right or your
right?” she laughs.

“
I dunno.”

“
My left,” she says, and
they sweep into a sauntering spin through a tightening spiral
downward. Floating close to the pollen stippled crest of the parks
tree's autumn leaves and waxy waves. Leaving the orchestral strums
of the hollow string people as whispers high above and behind them.
Passing under spotlights used to light a blank film screen for the
purveyors of the park on weekends, casting their shadows onto it
for a second before roughly landing. Tumbling onto the picnic patch
of melting fall leaves filling the middle of this small park.
Already knee deep in the melting wax that's thick as molasses, then
struggling not to sink while wading slowly through it. The two
break a sweat that cools and solidifies, then cracks off their skin
in chips and flakes.

It starts drizzling large watery
drops, causing the wax to cool into a sludge thinly glazed and
lustrously reflecting the midnight blue ambient and florescent
skyscrapers light above and around them. Out of breath from wading,
descending a short set of granite slab stairs down to the fluidly
fluctuating obsidian asphalt streets. They walk down the street,
toe to heel along the curb,, again feeling the visible currents of
particle winds sweep across their faces and fingertips.

“
Wanna get out of the
rain?” he asks.

“
Not really,” she says,
holding her hand out and waiting to catch the penny sized drizzle
in her palm.

“
Get a bite to eat. I think
there's a diner down the street over there” he says.

“
Let's hope it's actually a
diner this time,” she says.

“
Ladies first,” he says
pulling the door open to a scene that's not the cozy looking diner
of the front window, but a small wood furnished stone walled candle
lit cafe resembling a catacomb of a cavern. Swaying gemstone
pendulums hang from the ceiling, beaming diffracted reflections
onto the faces of the phase shifting particle patrons sitting
around pink and white tablecloths clothing the stone tables set
with stained stoneware and wine glasses filled to the rim with a
medicine cabinet of fluids.

“
The food smells good
enough to eat,” he says.

Snif sniff snifff “it's burning flesh,
and they use too much garlic, way too much. But okay,” she shrugs.
Thinking he's always hungry, it's a wonder he's not fat as Elvis by
now. Probably from all that running, from the Ribbits, from death,
from himself. The two wade through a waist high bog of coats hung
on the backs of chairs, eyeing the plates in passing with their
noses. They find an empty table in the middle of a tightly packed
group of table clothes and take to scanning the menu before even
taking to the worn cushioned seats.

“
Ahh, much better,” he says
as he sits.

“
Does this place seem a
little, odd?” she asks.

“
Odd how?”

“
I mean, like occultish?”
she says scanning with startled eyes.

“
I don't know what you
mean.”

“
The small skulls on the
chairs, and furniture. Only candles for lighting, the swinging
pendulums, the runic writing scribbled on everything, some I know
are alchemic, and this menu is made of what I think is lambskin,”
she says.

“
Who knows probably for
ambiance, a theme or something. Look, they have wraps, nothing to
worry about,” he says. A gaunt looking tall blue haired girl tip
toes across the skulls on the backs of the chairs to make her way
to their table. Leaning over them with a fanged grimace to ask in a
villainous, but submissive voice, “anything to drink?”

“
An apple cider please” she
says.

“
Really?” he
asks.

“
Yeah why not.”

“
And you” the undead
looking waitress asks.

“
A pink lemonade” he
says.

“
No liquor today? I'm
astonished.”

“
Not a drop.”

“
Oh I'm so proud of you,”
she feigns sarcasm.

“
There are days I don’t
drink.”

“
Which day? where of what?
I haven’t seen one.”

“
Maybe I just think your
sour,” he quips.

“
Soon you won't have to
deal with that anymore,” she says, not realizing what she said
until after she said it. Intending a joke but causing a spell of
silence between them lasting for a few thunderstruck seconds.
Realizing what she said, she stammers, bites her lip as he looks
away to avoid her honey eyes alit in panic. Then smiling to himself
at the thought of her caring enough to fret over his feelings, and
her silent admission that she feels the same way about them
parting.

“
And anything to eat while
you’re here?” the undead looking girls voice interrupts their
silent exchange.

“
A duck soup for her, and
I'll have a-”

“
Pastrami sandwich” she
finishes his thought with a smile.

“
I was gonna say a salad,”
he says.

“
You weren’t,” she shakes
her head.

“
But, that sounds good
enough,” he says, to her rolling her eyes.

“
Right,” she
says.

“
And you’re fine with a
duck soup?” he asks.

“
Sounds good.”

“
Will that be all?” the
server asks.

“
Yes.” “Yes.”

“
Great…”

“
Wait,” she
says.

“
What is it?” the clerk
asks.

“
Two coffees please,” she
says.

“
Great, I'll be back with
your drinks. If you need anything feel free to ring this bell,” the
insomnia eyed server says picking up a little silver bell with a
black bow, similar to the bow around her neck, from the corner of
their table and shakes it ever so gently. Causing every server in
the place to snap their necks with a lustful look in the direction
of the bell's sound.

“
Okay, thanks,” Anna
says.

“
Thanks,” he says. Anna
waits until the undead girl is gone and says “See things like
that?”

“
Like what?” he
asks.

“
The servers, all of whom
are walking gothic sex fantasies enslaved to the sound of a diner's
bell.”

“
Don't judge.”

“
I wasn't
judging.”

“
Cuz you’re coming off a
little…”

“
What?”

“
A little intolerant Anna,
I just want you to know that,” he says with a serious face for
almost a whole second before laughing.

“
Oh shut up! you think
nothing’s ever awry,” she snaps.

“
You should respect all
customs and cultures,” he says condescendingly.

“
Did you order the ruptured
spleen of a guy named Sal? a guy named Sal. Why would they humanize
the meal?” she asks.

“
Upupup, no you ordered me
a pastrami sandwich, and what did you get, a duck soup? what if it
was called duck soup of a duck named howard, would you eat
it?”

She thinks for a minute, stroking her
chin, pretending to be deeply pondering of her morality before
surmising her answer.

“
Yeah, anyone would if I
they were hungry enough,” she says.

“
You see, oh I thought you
were gonna says no.”

“
No a duck is still a duck,
and that spleen, is from a guy. Named Sal, but what were you gonna
say anyway,” she says.

“
I dunno,” he says with the
wind let out of his sails, “something about the infiniteness, and
the guy is a duck to someone, or something”

“
Don’t worry I would've
convincingly listened and mumbled in agreement,” she says stroking
his hand. They eat their meals as the drizzle outside turns into a
torrential rain, violently turning the ground into tides of rapidly
spiking ripples where each penny sized drop collides with the fluid
ground. Finishing his sandwich, Cider excuses himself to the
bathroom, leaving Anna alone to watch the water in the ambient wind
washing across the front window.

“
This is for you,” the
undead server says, placing a slice of frosted carrot cake on the
table in front of her, “from the man over there.”

“
Where?” she turns to her
left to where the girl is pointing.

“
From the guy I walked in
with?”

“
No, another soul,” the
server says.

“
What did he look like?”
Anna asks, just as a bell rings and the girl vanishes from standing
beside her sprinting away on tiny skulls. Anna sneers dismissively
down at the slice of carrot cake served to her from a
stranger.

“
I thought it would be
something you would like,” says a man’s booming voice, as though
every syllable is echoed from the depths of a cave. A six and a
half foot tall, broad shouldered man in a dark dress blue suit is
towering over Anna’s shoulder. Having barely gray stoically staring
eyes looking through her, and big blue teeth that seem like cut
stones, seen only when his grown cherub’s face is smiling. He's
crowned with the blonde curly hair of a cherub smoothed and swept
to the back of his head. His demeanor is disarming though his
presence resonates a spine gripping gravitas into anyone to share
the same air as him. Rarefied air is always around of too little
oxygen to breathe adding to the feel he's clothed in a veil of
unnerving serenity, making every second near him seem more cold and
distant then the last.

“
What nice ecru eyes you
have,” the man says in a polite but dreary tone.

Anna looks up to see the man, finding
his glare immediately overbearing she quickly looks away and says,
“no thank you. I'm actually here with someone.”

“
Oh, you are taken? sorry
for my presumption,” he says.

“
Yes, sorry. Thanks but, no
thanks,” she says pushing the plate of dessert away.

“
Well I don't see why you
can't have your cake and eat it too,” the man says bemused. Anna
takes another look at the piece of cake, remembers the waitress
brought it and shrugs “I guess, I don't see why not. Thank you,”
she says half smirking over her left shoulder, but the man is no
longer there. she catches a glimpse over the heads of patrons of
the man showing his gums as he leaves, then weaving into the
torrential downpour and out of her view.

“
Oh, a carrot cake, that
looks good,” Cider says to a confused faced Anna.

“
What?” she
says.

“
What's eating you,” he
laughs.

“
Nothing. Some guy bought
me that cake.”

“
Oh yeah, where is he? I'll
show em,” he feigns bravery and flexes his arms.

“
He's gone. I watched him
walk through the door,” she says.

“
No reason to waste a good
piece of cake,” he says.

“
I wasn't going to but,
okay we'll split it then, I'm not gonna eat it all anyway,” she
says.

“
Ha, like you couldn't,” he
laughs, cutting his half away with his fork.

At the door, Anna stops dead in her
tracks, hesitating just before the raging roar of densely packed,
penny sized, light refracting streaks of crystal clear rainfall. A
deluge, suffocating the midnight blue of the ambient view above,
pouring down an earth's sky per square mile a minute. Flooding the
obsidian black pavements and undulating streets under an inch thick
sheet of crystal clear water whose fluorescence reflecting surface
is rendered into Rictor scale like spikes by the ultra rapidly
splashing volumes of streaking rain.

“
What is it?” he asks. She
says nothing only staring pensively to the rippling rain and
undulating ground.

“
It's really delusional out
there, sure you wanna go?” he asks.

“
You mean it's a deluge,”
she says.

“
Yeah, a real delusional
downpour.”

“
But you said. Whatever,
nevermind,” she says.

“
Okay, ready,” he asks.
She’s still, standing paused biting her bottom lip in front of the
roaring open door. Staring pensively past his open palm to the
deluge of demassifying dark blue ambient emulsifying refractive
streaks randomly ravaging the watery surface of the five foot black
swells rolling through the mellifluously flowing ravine that are
the sidewalks and streets. Her eyes are welling as she's shrinking
into the soles of her shoes with a low whimper. Panic stricken and
trembling in place she’s stuttering trying to speak through a swell
of self deceiving doubt reigning over her as a shelterless tempest
of temporal lament. Scrambling her sensibilities and her sense of
the present, seconds stretch into minutes metered by hot flashes
under cold sweat pouring from all the pore's of her body. She feels
like she's melting into her clothes as her tongue dries out and her
eyelashes soak to blur her vision further.

The deluge through the door
is overwhelming her senses unshielded senses. Her face is holding a
distant glare, looking far out though delving deep into the depths
of her self within, and desperately seeking unseen shelter from a
soul sickening storm menacing the horizons of her mind Lost,
foraging fruitlessly for the calm clear skies of the inner
tempest’s eye, witnessing herself falling to her knees in an empty
field, frightened, weeping alone in the dark of dusk. No longer
searching for any warmth to shine through the clouds or thinking
about the sorrowful scene around her. Focusing instead on the
darkest swarms of thought raining resurfacing glimpses of past
missteps and faults, and memories wrought with remorse and self
loathing. Perceiving from the depths of her being, and feeling as
though her soul is fleeing, from a skin peeling psychosomatic pains
of her each self deprecating though racing through her head.
Anna descends into spine shivering self defeat
debasing even her sense of being, seeing only the ugly days and
moral compromises to survive.