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writetomyheart2015-08-11 11:45 pm
bluedreaming) wrote in writetomyheart2015-08-11 11:45 pm
[team sonic] unidentified noise
First word from here.
Title from Inside the Idle Hour Club by Rökysopp & Robyn. This is part five of the inevitable end, preceded by quiet.
". . .orgasm," Zhoumi finishes his sentence, waving his hands vaguely in the direction of the table as Zitao falls out of his vague daydreams with a brutal double take.
"Did you just say the word orgasm?" he asks, blinking. What are you talking about and why are we having this converstation in public?
Zhoumi just grins, taking another bite of carbonara, chewing carefully before he swallows and sets down his fork and knife at the edge of the plate, dabbing at his mouth with the napkin. Zitao just makes sulky faces becuause he's already finished his steak.
"I was saying," Zhoumi says, taking the last sip of wine, a faint red stain lingering behind at the bottom of the glass, "that good music, like good food, is a kind of sensual orgasm." He looks at Zitao more closely then, leaning across the table. "You never listen to me at the best of times but your attention span today is worse than usual." He stops talkikng then; tips his head thoughfully. The chandelier above their table casts a sharp shadow across his face, splitting it into darkness and light.
Zitao looks up at the glass beads that make up the chandelier, the way they sway lightly in the air currents of the room. The way the light presses into his eyes, so that even when he closes them, he can still see green spots behind his eyelids.
Her face, wet with tears.
"Why the sudden interest in opera anyway?" Zhoumi asked, and his voice was serious this time, not playing anymore. "I never got an answer from you."
Zitao just stands up and shrugs into the blazer hanging on his chair.
"We're going to be late."
Zhoumi gets a call when they're heading up the red plush steps, before he's had a chance to power his phone off. Zitao pauses politely, a few steps away, while Zhoumi's face stretches back into complete seriousness, none of of joking from earlier in the restaurant apparent. Finally he nods, and Zitao can read his lips even though the noise of the congregating audience, streaming past to reach their seats, is too loud to make out the words.
"I'll be right there."
Zhoumi glances around until he catches Zitao's gaze, waving his phone and Zitao nods. He knows how it is. He waves back as Zhoumi disappears down the stairs, his phone buzzing a few minutes later when he's sliding into his seat.
I took the car and driver home so catch a taxi okay? Let me know when you get home.
Zitao smiles at his phone before tucking it back into his pocket. Zhoumi is too nice, even when it's sometimes a little too much to bear.
The woman isn't there again; Zitao practically expects it by this point but he always checks anyway, always looks to make sure. The two seats are empty though, and that makes him hope that, since they're prime seats, it means that she's still holding onto them.
Some day.
The curtain falls on the end of act two, the audience applauding before pouring out along the rows, peeling off to queue for the restrooms or line up for the bar; Zitao makes his way to the table with his name on it, a glass on dubonnet on ice waiting. He's acquired a bit of a taste for the sticky darkness, though he'd never order it outside of the opera setting. He sits down, letting his tensed muscles relax as the sweet thickness slides over his tongue, cold and faintly rusty as it slips down his throat.
He closes his eyes, lets the roar of the crown fade into the dullness of white noise, voices receeding like faces flashing by, the people on the opposite subway car racing towards the past.
The woman, crying.
Zitao opens his eyes and straightens in his seat, taking another sip of dubonnet. The sweetness is diluted by melting ice, everything gets softer after a while, fades with time. He looks up and sees the woman at the next table.
She's sitting alone, twirling a glass between her fingers like actresses used to twirl cigarette holders, one last splash of crimson darkening the interior. As Zitao watches, she takes a breath, closes her eyes, and swallows the last mouthfull, setting the glass gently down on the table with a muted clink that he can hear, somehow, over all the background noise.
He watches her, drink forgotten on the table, ice melting in a clear layer beneath the red. Sometimes there are secrets, and sometimes there aren't any secrets at all.
"Hi." Tilda looks up. There's a young man standing, somewhat awkwardly, next to her small table. She has no idea what he wants or why he's standing there. She's never seen him before in her life. But there's something about him, nothing specific, but just a feeling in the way his gaze is so intense and yet, somehow, deferring.
"Hello," she says, folding her hands in her lap, the space where her wedding band used to rest still strange against her skin. He had asked to be buried with both of them and she'd agreed, even though it made her sad.
The young man shifts, tucks a hand into his pocket, pulls it out again.
"You have the seats next to my cousin's," he says, and his voice is almsot embarrassed, as though his mind is second guessing his actions even as his mouth keeps moving. Without conciously realizing it, a small smile begins to hover in the corners of her mouth.
"Yes," she says, not offering any answers, but waiting to see what he'll do next. The crowd begins to double in frenzy at the bar, the line for the ladies' restroom overflowing down the steps as the five-minute bell sounds.
"I saw you the first time I came," the young man says, "but you left at intermission and you haven't come since. I was kind of. . ." his voice pauses, before he finishes in a burst of words, "I was just wondering if you were okay." His face is slightly flushed; he looks so embarassed, so earnest, that Tilda can't help but burst out with a ringing laugh.
She hasn't laughed in a long time, not since—
"I like you," Tilda says, deciding as the words come out of her mouth. The young man, one foot raised as though readying himself to make a break for it, paused, almost tripping as he fights to regain his balance, complete and utter surprise written across his face. "What's your name?"
"Umm, Zitao?" the young man says, voice inflectingly so as to make his response into into a question.
"Well if you don't know your own name then I certainly can't help you there," Tilda retorts, and she can feel her self flowing back into her fingers, none of the servants really talk to her and all of her friends have tiptoed around her since he died; talking to Zitao—she'll presume that's his name—is all of a sudden reminding her of what she used to be like. Snappy, life flowing through her veins, loud unapologetic laughter and a sharp gaze. "I'm Tilda Swinton but you may call me Ms. Swinton," she adds. Zitao looks slightly shell-shocked, and she can't really blame him.
The one-minute bells rings, and he glances toward the doors.
"Go along," Tilda says, gesturing.
"Aren't you coming?" he asks, and she doesnt think it's just her imagination that there's a note of sincerity in the question. Like he really cares, and it's not just a pleasantry told to strangers.
"I'm still warming up to the opera again," she replies, surprised at her own honesty. "My driver will be along shortly." Zitao looks torn, and Tilda can't later justify to herself why she adds what she says next. "Perhaps we'll see each other at the next performance?"
The smile that spreads across his face as he turns to rush for his seats is worth it.
Title from Inside the Idle Hour Club by Rökysopp & Robyn. This is part five of the inevitable end, preceded by quiet.
". . .orgasm," Zhoumi finishes his sentence, waving his hands vaguely in the direction of the table as Zitao falls out of his vague daydreams with a brutal double take.
"Did you just say the word orgasm?" he asks, blinking. What are you talking about and why are we having this converstation in public?
Zhoumi just grins, taking another bite of carbonara, chewing carefully before he swallows and sets down his fork and knife at the edge of the plate, dabbing at his mouth with the napkin. Zitao just makes sulky faces becuause he's already finished his steak.
"I was saying," Zhoumi says, taking the last sip of wine, a faint red stain lingering behind at the bottom of the glass, "that good music, like good food, is a kind of sensual orgasm." He looks at Zitao more closely then, leaning across the table. "You never listen to me at the best of times but your attention span today is worse than usual." He stops talkikng then; tips his head thoughfully. The chandelier above their table casts a sharp shadow across his face, splitting it into darkness and light.
Zitao looks up at the glass beads that make up the chandelier, the way they sway lightly in the air currents of the room. The way the light presses into his eyes, so that even when he closes them, he can still see green spots behind his eyelids.
Her face, wet with tears.
"Why the sudden interest in opera anyway?" Zhoumi asked, and his voice was serious this time, not playing anymore. "I never got an answer from you."
Zitao just stands up and shrugs into the blazer hanging on his chair.
"We're going to be late."
Zhoumi gets a call when they're heading up the red plush steps, before he's had a chance to power his phone off. Zitao pauses politely, a few steps away, while Zhoumi's face stretches back into complete seriousness, none of of joking from earlier in the restaurant apparent. Finally he nods, and Zitao can read his lips even though the noise of the congregating audience, streaming past to reach their seats, is too loud to make out the words.
"I'll be right there."
Zhoumi glances around until he catches Zitao's gaze, waving his phone and Zitao nods. He knows how it is. He waves back as Zhoumi disappears down the stairs, his phone buzzing a few minutes later when he's sliding into his seat.
I took the car and driver home so catch a taxi okay? Let me know when you get home.
Zitao smiles at his phone before tucking it back into his pocket. Zhoumi is too nice, even when it's sometimes a little too much to bear.
The woman isn't there again; Zitao practically expects it by this point but he always checks anyway, always looks to make sure. The two seats are empty though, and that makes him hope that, since they're prime seats, it means that she's still holding onto them.
Some day.
The curtain falls on the end of act two, the audience applauding before pouring out along the rows, peeling off to queue for the restrooms or line up for the bar; Zitao makes his way to the table with his name on it, a glass on dubonnet on ice waiting. He's acquired a bit of a taste for the sticky darkness, though he'd never order it outside of the opera setting. He sits down, letting his tensed muscles relax as the sweet thickness slides over his tongue, cold and faintly rusty as it slips down his throat.
He closes his eyes, lets the roar of the crown fade into the dullness of white noise, voices receeding like faces flashing by, the people on the opposite subway car racing towards the past.
The woman, crying.
Zitao opens his eyes and straightens in his seat, taking another sip of dubonnet. The sweetness is diluted by melting ice, everything gets softer after a while, fades with time. He looks up and sees the woman at the next table.
She's sitting alone, twirling a glass between her fingers like actresses used to twirl cigarette holders, one last splash of crimson darkening the interior. As Zitao watches, she takes a breath, closes her eyes, and swallows the last mouthfull, setting the glass gently down on the table with a muted clink that he can hear, somehow, over all the background noise.
He watches her, drink forgotten on the table, ice melting in a clear layer beneath the red. Sometimes there are secrets, and sometimes there aren't any secrets at all.
"Hi." Tilda looks up. There's a young man standing, somewhat awkwardly, next to her small table. She has no idea what he wants or why he's standing there. She's never seen him before in her life. But there's something about him, nothing specific, but just a feeling in the way his gaze is so intense and yet, somehow, deferring.
"Hello," she says, folding her hands in her lap, the space where her wedding band used to rest still strange against her skin. He had asked to be buried with both of them and she'd agreed, even though it made her sad.
The young man shifts, tucks a hand into his pocket, pulls it out again.
"You have the seats next to my cousin's," he says, and his voice is almsot embarrassed, as though his mind is second guessing his actions even as his mouth keeps moving. Without conciously realizing it, a small smile begins to hover in the corners of her mouth.
"Yes," she says, not offering any answers, but waiting to see what he'll do next. The crowd begins to double in frenzy at the bar, the line for the ladies' restroom overflowing down the steps as the five-minute bell sounds.
"I saw you the first time I came," the young man says, "but you left at intermission and you haven't come since. I was kind of. . ." his voice pauses, before he finishes in a burst of words, "I was just wondering if you were okay." His face is slightly flushed; he looks so embarassed, so earnest, that Tilda can't help but burst out with a ringing laugh.
She hasn't laughed in a long time, not since—
"I like you," Tilda says, deciding as the words come out of her mouth. The young man, one foot raised as though readying himself to make a break for it, paused, almost tripping as he fights to regain his balance, complete and utter surprise written across his face. "What's your name?"
"Umm, Zitao?" the young man says, voice inflectingly so as to make his response into into a question.
"Well if you don't know your own name then I certainly can't help you there," Tilda retorts, and she can feel her self flowing back into her fingers, none of the servants really talk to her and all of her friends have tiptoed around her since he died; talking to Zitao—she'll presume that's his name—is all of a sudden reminding her of what she used to be like. Snappy, life flowing through her veins, loud unapologetic laughter and a sharp gaze. "I'm Tilda Swinton but you may call me Ms. Swinton," she adds. Zitao looks slightly shell-shocked, and she can't really blame him.
The one-minute bells rings, and he glances toward the doors.
"Go along," Tilda says, gesturing.
"Aren't you coming?" he asks, and she doesnt think it's just her imagination that there's a note of sincerity in the question. Like he really cares, and it's not just a pleasantry told to strangers.
"I'm still warming up to the opera again," she replies, surprised at her own honesty. "My driver will be along shortly." Zitao looks torn, and Tilda can't later justify to herself why she adds what she says next. "Perhaps we'll see each other at the next performance?"
The smile that spreads across his face as he turns to rush for his seats is worth it.