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writetomyheart2015-08-11 03:35 pm
bluedreaming) wrote in writetomyheart2015-08-11 03:35 pm
Entry tags:
[team sonic] waiting in the dark
First words from here.
Title from Every Little Thing by Rökysopp & Robyn. This is part three of the inevitable end, preceded by the moment before and followed by quiet.
She's missing the next time Zitao claims his spot in the front row of the first balcony, dead centre. This time Zhoumi is sitting beside him, far too excited by every little thing, the costumes, the music, the translations—the helpful way he points out the errors is particularly aggravating because Zitao finds himself getting interested despite himself, when all he wants is to figure out the enigma of the crying woman.
"Do you always sit beside the same people?" he asks, nursing a dubonnet instead of a beer, plenty of time to sit this time because Zhoumi knows how everything works, and Zitao makes a small face behind his back when the bartender already knows what Zhoumi will order.
Of course, the bartender at his usual haunt knows his order too, but it feels different, somehow, surround by cut-glass, clinking crystal and people dressed to within the inch of their lives. Or maybe it's just because Zhoumi made Zitao put on a suit and Zitao severely dislikes suits.
"The first row is pretty much entirely subscription tickets," Zhoumi says, "so yes, although sometimes people switch." He looks at Zitao inquisitively, and Zitao throws all caution to the wind; later he'll blame it on the dubonnet that's too sweet in his mouth, red the colour of arterial blood as it sits heavy on his tongue.
"There was a woman last time?" he asked, the statement turned into a question by the inflection in his tone. Zhoumi looks thoughtfull.
"I'm not sure," he says, "does she sit to the left when you face the stage?"
Zitao nods, and Zhoumi's eyes light up in recognition.
"Oh, that's Ms. Swinton," he says, "she and her husband come all the time. I think he used to be a conductor himself?"
Zitao takes another sip of his dubonnet and thinks about the empty seat and the glistening tears on her face. He doesn't say anything though; it feels too private, somehow, if Zhoumi doesn't know anything about it.
They head back to their seats after the intermission, and watch some people sing themselves to suffocation in a sealed tomb on stage. Zitao doesn't even bother commenting to Zhoumi that they should stop singing and start trying to get out. He just looks at the two empty seats, and thinks.
Title from Every Little Thing by Rökysopp & Robyn. This is part three of the inevitable end, preceded by the moment before and followed by quiet.
She's missing the next time Zitao claims his spot in the front row of the first balcony, dead centre. This time Zhoumi is sitting beside him, far too excited by every little thing, the costumes, the music, the translations—the helpful way he points out the errors is particularly aggravating because Zitao finds himself getting interested despite himself, when all he wants is to figure out the enigma of the crying woman.
"Do you always sit beside the same people?" he asks, nursing a dubonnet instead of a beer, plenty of time to sit this time because Zhoumi knows how everything works, and Zitao makes a small face behind his back when the bartender already knows what Zhoumi will order.
Of course, the bartender at his usual haunt knows his order too, but it feels different, somehow, surround by cut-glass, clinking crystal and people dressed to within the inch of their lives. Or maybe it's just because Zhoumi made Zitao put on a suit and Zitao severely dislikes suits.
"The first row is pretty much entirely subscription tickets," Zhoumi says, "so yes, although sometimes people switch." He looks at Zitao inquisitively, and Zitao throws all caution to the wind; later he'll blame it on the dubonnet that's too sweet in his mouth, red the colour of arterial blood as it sits heavy on his tongue.
"There was a woman last time?" he asked, the statement turned into a question by the inflection in his tone. Zhoumi looks thoughtfull.
"I'm not sure," he says, "does she sit to the left when you face the stage?"
Zitao nods, and Zhoumi's eyes light up in recognition.
"Oh, that's Ms. Swinton," he says, "she and her husband come all the time. I think he used to be a conductor himself?"
Zitao takes another sip of his dubonnet and thinks about the empty seat and the glistening tears on her face. He doesn't say anything though; it feels too private, somehow, if Zhoumi doesn't know anything about it.
They head back to their seats after the intermission, and watch some people sing themselves to suffocation in a sealed tomb on stage. Zitao doesn't even bother commenting to Zhoumi that they should stop singing and start trying to get out. He just looks at the two empty seats, and thinks.