writetomyheart | [team three] to the butcher's

A young man's trip to the butcher's. 1255w; G. Fandomless but finished!

The road is paved with setts. Large, old, uneven stones fixed to the ground - probably once perfectly even and shaping a tempting road (grey but smooth and leading to a cabaret, a casino, a bar — he likes to imagine it this way) - now a worn out snake with uneven scales, a half-shed skin he struggles to handle even after all these years. It's pretty, it's familiar — it was the road next to the sidewalk he took when going to school as a child — it is the path he now takes when he goes to work, then heads home, or when visiting a friend, running errands (so many things, so many of them, the flood of a seemingly constant that never intends to end)

The road is paved with setts: it isn't taken care of and has been left as it is (as it was) (as it once were, bright under the shine of the moon and the lights of the night) (dirty grey under the rain, somewhat ancient under the summer sun). It decays, and it decays, and has now bent under the myriad of people, of vehicles that have come across her, stepped or driven upon her. It is uneven, it is Heritage —

it is a pain to cycle on,

but he does so happily

because he must

(and the road is nothing more than blocks, old stone next to old stone next to old stone, taking him away before guiding him home.)

The bike he rides is a flash of colour against the grey setts — bright, neon orange granting the old times some ephemeral youth — granting himself a pop of colour he would otherwise not get, neutrals all over except on his very best day (a green tee-shirt) (a yellow pair of socks) (red writings on a black jumper, nothing much to see, nothing extravagant because it all resides

Inside)

It contrasts with the bright blue sky, too, and that fact itself is enough for the world to vomit pale and brown shades at him (at it) in opposition. The church is a stale yellow — the new apartment block is a boring pale burgundy — the old stacks of mining houses are all a faded white, and nothing ever compares to the spring that has settled in the clouds, to the summer he always carries with him, wherever he goes.

(Nothing)

(Certainly not this door, a simple grey after being renovated)

(And not this store either, made of pale bricks that would not last a second in any man's memory)

(Not this streetlight either — a dark brown, marrying well with the lock of his bike — but clashing with its body, still, and with the cat that somehow comes rubbing up against it)

(Ah, this one, perhaps - this one could set fires too)

His bike is rested against the streetlight, and the cat is tenderly pet. once, twice, thrice — not quite enough, like it always is with those who treasures cats — but duties are duties, and loving a cat does not often put food on your table (not often — because, you see, he knows someone) (and you would never believe it) (you have to see it to fall for it, but-)

'Hello,' is what rings out as soon as he opens the door, as soon as he steps into the shop — and the story is forgotten, the cat is left outside (it doesn't live far anyway — he knows.)

A smile is hung unto lips, and blood comes rushing to his heart. Spiders of ice trickle down his arms, his back. Perhaps it is the cashier. Perhaps it is the meat, filling every corner of his vision as he looks through the glass, deciding on his order as the client before him finishes up. Perhaps it is the cold, battling his naked arms (it is hot, at work. It always is.)

He doesn't really know.

Who does, anyway?

(Perhaps his ginger friend? After all — it does not live far.)

'Hello,' is repeated as the client before him leaves, and only two hearts beat in the room (the rest of them dead, worked on to please followers of the shop — to please their taste buds, and make sure they come back.

Again.

And again.

And again.)

'Hello,' the lovely lady says, and meat is forgotten for halves of seconds to appreciate her features. A square jaw, a large mouth (smiling the warmest smile, he swears he has ever seen), tired eyes that seek his out. Dark brown skin covered by a black tee-shirt and a burgundy apron, fall if it ever came early, replaced its three siblings and decided to stay all-year long.

(Not that it would — not that it would…)

'Hello,' he once again says, and he smiles, wider — he thinks, for milliseconds, and finally comes up with an order.

'I want this,

And this,

And this.

And that -

And this!

And that.'

'Some more of this?'

(The lady smiles.)

(Of course!)

'Sure, yes.'

Food and food and food

is wrapped up in pink,

Pretty pink of spring that lights up the smallest urges and makes them bloom, whisper to them to come out and live

Fully.

A hefty price comes with such a voice (as it is laid on wood, as it is reaching for his shopping bag, ready to come home to fulfil its duty)

But it is one he pays gladly (green inserted in black, giving him white — ticket one and ticket two shoved in his bag) (summer even in his money - if only for a while, before the world changes and colours rearrange themselves)

He bids the lady a warm goodbye, almost as warm as her greeting, and makes sure to smile one more time. She does too

As always,

And summer settles in his heart, rotting it and melting it like snow, like ice, like anything under the burning touch of fire. it decays at the speed of light and becomes a rock, becomes dust — and from dust emerges life, emerge plants, emerges air, emerges a world. In there in-between veins and arteries and beating blood, life lives and lives and lives

(A ginger familiar meows and rubs itself against his legs, asks him something he will never understand)

(He reaches for its head and pets it, and shares his life with it - briefly.)

'See you,' he says,

And lingers,

Petting

And petting

And petting —

Then eventually

He gets on his bike (meat secure in his backpack)

(Black like the end of times, like the beginning of it)

Summer under him and above him bless the world with their colours, and all in his neutral glory he lays a decisive foot on one of his pedals.

'See you,' he repeats (this time means), and as if it understood, as if it spoke his language (as if it knew more than him, bits of every secret of the world)

The cat sits down, and meows back.

Blinks once, slowly, and then he is on the road.

Setts, old, laid down long ago. Perhaps once leading to a cabaret, a casino, a bar (he likes to imagine it this way) — now the path to work, to all his errands. A half-shed skin he still hasn't yet mastered, perhaps the only speckle of winter we will get here.

But he has the sun beneath him, he has the sun above him — he has the sun in his heart, and the road

is nothing more than stones.

Appreciating the way he imitates the star far far above and beyond, he pedals on

and

He shines.

shinysylver you're next!