The door slammed behind me. In a few long strides, I blew bast the shriveled yard and put distance between the once quaint house and myself. Through a hazy grey I marched until finally collapsing against a telephone pole. I watched steam rise and unfurl from storm drains, my breath calming down slowly. A dull ache permeated my whole body, starting in my temples and simmering its way down to my toes. I went to breathe and there was smog instead of air; the anger in me fizzled out.
So went the city.
Looking around now with feigned curiosity, the familiar sights trundled on. Grey people, heads bowed, shuffling. You could push one over and they wouldn't realize it until they hit the ground. The last gasp of anger settled in me and felt instead the bruises, like a membrane of discomfort all around.
We had been fighting again. My birthday just a few days from now, words had been traded - then blows received. I couldn’t remember what we had been talking about and I didn’t care to try. Some ill part of me said I deserved it, caused these one sided fist fights. A more wholesome, kind part told me it couldn’t be my fault and to care about me the way she had. Eventually, both halves took me by the hand and got me away, as neither wanted me to get hurt. Wincing, I held my ribs on both side as if to press a broken vase back together.
For someone that only drank and collected insurance money, he had some sharp punches.
My legs were numb and I swatted at them, trying to send the pins and needles away. They stung and shivered before I could lurch and continue on my way. Blocks passed in thoughts and colors, people blending into a babbling stream. Eventually the current deposited me on a familiar shore, a worn down cafe with a name no one could pronounce in a language no one knew. The most consistent way I heard it describe, which was itself a rare occurrence, was ‘The one cafe near Chinatown with awesome coffee.’ Memorable, but not namable.
Copper chimes and bells greeted me as I pushed open a stained glass door. The floor below was checkered black and white, a massive chess board on which patrons were positioned. The walls were brushed with the colors of a meadow and had woven slats across the scenery, mimicking a fenced in vineyard. Across these structures their namesake crept, the reds and greens of Kiwi Vine grasping all around. Somewhere in this living room, a door creaked.
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“What’s this I have in my web?” breezed a woman. The voice had been fermented with honey and sage, aged over a seemingly infinite life to form a gentle taste to listen to.
“Oh, just a human boy,” I replied, turning to watch the dainty hermit twirl and weave. Her movement was of a ship without a sail, finding her way by something bigger than the wind itself. Chance nudged her on, perhaps.
“Oh, Human Boy. Will they be paying today in money or good intentions?”
My face puckered from her scrutiny and I had to clamp down on my tongue not to laugh.
“Don’t you always tell me that money is a poor man’s currency?” I beam at her now, the crazy old woman always good at spirit lifting.
She gave me a long, contemplative stare, rubbing her chin as she hummed with the sharpest of retorts.
“Maybe, but this backwards world puts the richest of the poor in charge. It’s good to play along and not hurt their feelings.” She smiled, and the whole of her face - wrinkles, spots and creases- turned upward.
Ms. Maui: the wisdom and kindness of a grandmother with the playfulness of an older sibling. She was the sort of person that made me hope against hope Heaven was real so that she could continue her convoluted acts of kindness for all of eternity.
She wore her hair back in a tight bun, a cocooned butterfly wound with silken thread. Rarely could one see her eyes, either squinting or hidden behind a full inch of corrective lenses. On occasion she will misplace them and call me at all hours of the day to help her find them. More than once, they’ve been on her forehead.
“Well?” She asks again, holding up her hands and rubbing her thumbs and forefingers together in the universal sign for ‘give me money.’
“Sorry, not today. But I was just coming to visit-” She cut me off by scoffing and dropping her tray down on the nearby table. The black pottery shivered and clinked making me wince. In one swift movement my arms were raised, but were then pulled back down to my sides. Hands that grasped like irons steered me to confront two unblinking depths, Ms. Maui’s eyes threatening to envelop me.
“He hurt you again,” She said. It wasn’t a question.
I don’t know, but I smiled. She released me and I sat down at the table with that black tea set, propping up my head on my hands. Letting out a low, long breath, I was set upon by a storm of care and wisdom.
“But, I fought back today.” Ms. Maui perked up at this and swung herself into the vacant chair across from me. Letting her palm show after a twirl of her wrist, I knew to continue.
“He called Mom a bitch.”
(Part 1 of ?)