Departing the Silence

It starts with the wine.

A lovely, crisp Pinot Gris is poured for them both, and she sips, appreciative. The stem of his wineglass is held loosely, the bottom still resting on the table. He stares through the contents and watches the reflection of the light above dance across the surface.

Next are the salads, laid down carefully by the waiter. This waiter has served them the same fare every year they have come, but does not understand this year’s silence. Still, he performs his tasks admirably, as always. Hers is a fresh garden salad, the different lettuces crunchy, the cherry tomatoes in particular a delight to taste, with only a light virgin olive oil dressing to accentuate. He enjoys a Caesar, no less fresh than hers, with croutons to dip into the ranch dressing provided.

When the main dishes arrive, not too long after their salad plates are empty, she is served first with a succulent salmon fillet. The fish is seasoned with lemon juices and herbs, and tastes as though just caught from the sea. She relishes it immensely, savoring each small bite, inhaling the aroma, the wine a perfect counterpart. He is equally satisfied with his chicken fettuccine alfredo, the pasta cooked al dente at his preference, each morsel of chicken full of flavor, the sauce and wine mixing fluidly on his tongue.

They finish the main course, the wine is generously topped up, and dessert is served. A single piece of cheesecake, with a quite delicious raspberry topping. They are both still for a minute, listening to the quiet conversations and warm laughter around them. Perhaps each is remembering, as the waiter does, all of the previous meals eaten here, of their own enjoyment at not just the food but also of each other.

But the food is all they have left. Eventually, she sighs and takes a forkful of the cheesecake. He takes the next. They share the dessert in a calm fashion, waiting patiently for the other to be done before serving themselves the next piece.
 
The meal is over. The last of the wine is consumed. She looks him in the eyes for the first time all evening, and then breaks the stillness. “I’ll have the papers delivered sometime next week.”
 
He nods. It was what he’d expected to hear, and he finds that it does not hurt as sharply as he had feared. In fact, it will be a relief to finally be done with the silence. The waiter returns with the check and they both get up to leave, a single, empty plate and two forks, with two empty wine glasses, all that remains.

The Rank of Trust

Kōshi’s tongue was in the fourth jar from the right this time. As always, he tried not to stare at it too closely, but instead to pay attention only to his master’s orders. Once again, he failed.
Does it look more faded than the last time? Kōshi wondered. Certainly the color, which not so long ago had been a healthy pink, was now greying, as though the life was slowly bleeding out of the preserved organ, day by day.

Not that Kōshi saw his tongue every day. Or even every week. Perhaps that was why he could never quite bring himself not to look, his eyes drawn to the row of jars. Maybe his stolen glances were also a way of reassuring himself that he still knew which tongue was his among all the rest. His master preferred to move them around, ranking the order of the jars based on who was in favor with him at the time, the most trusted being the tongue on the very right. Kōshi didn’t know whose tongue that was, didn’t know who any of the other tongues once belonged to. He had never known any of the others back when they could still speak except for Lilia, who became elite after him.

Still, he thought the tongue on the very right probably belonged to Nisei. The tip still curled up slightly, giving off an air of mischievousness that Kōshi had learned was permanently ingrained into the older man’s personality. The tongue also looked much older, not just grey but fragile, as though one touch would cause it to disintegrate, and Kōshi knew that Nisei had been a part of their master’s organization for many years now.

Even so, Kōshi always knew which tongue was his own. He remembered the first time when he’d walked in and saw it amongst the others, the feeling of pride that swelled in his breast at seeing another jar added to the collection, of the implied trust. His tongue was smaller than most of the others, not too noticeably, but just enough to stand out that much more. It did not curl or twist at all, unlike some, but lay flat, the very edges forever tilted downwards, relaxed.

The increasingly greyish tinge to his tongue was fascinating to watch, a true marking of the passage of time. The very tip had lost its color first, and then the decay slowly crept along the outermost edges, steadily moving inwards. Now, only the very center was still truly pink, the rest of Kōshi’s tongue more of a mix between the two. Eventually, he knew even that would fade.

Kōshi shook his thoughts free, abruptly reminding himself that he was supposed to be listening, and put the row of tongues out of his mind to focus on what was important – his master’s orders.

Brave One

I only knew you for a few hours
but in that time
you taught me so much about myself.

Your immediate trust melted my heart.
The honest innocence in your eyes
touched my soul.

And I never even had the chance to say
farewell, so I’ll write it down here:

You broke me.
You saved me.
Thank you.
I love you.
Good-bye.

We Hear from the Accused

Here’s an idea: If someone flinches way from an unexpected touch, don’t accuse them of doing so on purpose. Don’t see it as a slight against yourself. Don’t think that this person can turn those reflexes off just because you say that you want them to. Don’t tell them to ‘relax,’ and honestly expect that just saying the word will produce any visible effect. People have those subconscious reactions for a reason, and fuck you for blaming someone for exhibiting a conditioned response that is beyond their control. For making someone think that it’s their fault that they flinched away from you, for making someone who has obviously been abused in their past feel guilty about surviving. Fuck you, you arrogant, entitled piece of shit.

A Savory Snippet

He heard the sound again, like a loosely-held pen scratching against harsh paper, and knew that the rats were back. They were once more gnawing on his toes, nibbling flesh and muscle, removing one tiny scrap at a time from the bones.

He didn’t stir.

Before, he’d jerked his feet back at the first touch, had shouted at the rats as they’d looked back at him and then scurried away, waiting.

Now, he sat, listening to the chewing of their feast, and felt nothing but nostalgia for some writing paper. It was not as though it mattered, the rats slowly devouring him, savoring every morsel. His body and mind had already long gone numb…