Weeks had gone by, but Rhys eventually kept his word and returned to the bookstore. It was a dreary sort of afternoon, perfect for taking a moment to have a cup of tea and enjoy something sweet. At the counter, he made small talk with Eärendil and somehow agreed to take a look at the espresso machine, which had been acting “as fickle as a filly with mud on her foot,” according to the elf. Whatever that meant.
It was a small matter, oblique similes notwithstanding, and by the time his cuppa was finished brewing, he had the contraption hissing and gurgling. Eärendil pulled a pair of shots to celebrate and in lieu of a toast, Rhys joked about how his employees were going to hate the elf by the time the day was over. He was frenetic enough in the garage without the addition of high-octane caffeine! And he could feel his veins starting to buzz before he’d even finished the shot.
Maybe he would take Dris dancing after this. Burn some of it off.
The mug Eärendil brought him next made him laugh. “You’re a day early, you know,” he told the elf. Eärendil told him to ask him if he cared. Rhys’ grin grew teeth then. Yes, he liked this fellow.
Before he left the counter with his mug and tartlet, he remembered part of the reason he had come. He took a folded slip of paper out of his pocket and slid it across the counter. “For the board,” he said, jerking his head toward the chalkboard where the elf displayed poems and specials. Eärendil read over the poem, then waved Rhys off to go write it on the board if he wanted it up there.
So that was how he found himself sitting upon a tall stool, scratching chalk across the board, with all the hairs on his arms standing on end thanks to the
scrape-scrape-scrape, and sipping his tea like the gentleman he wasn’t. When he was finished, he passed his mug and plate back to Eärendil, along with yet another promise to return soon when he had more time to peruse.
But for now, he had mechanics to terrorize and a sweet, lovely man to surprise.
Scheherazade
by Richard Siken
Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake
and dress them in warm clothes again.
How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running
until they forget that they are horses.
It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,
it’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio,
how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days
were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple
to slice into pieces.
Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means
we’re inconsolable.
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
These, our bodies, possessed by light.
Tell me we’ll never get used to it.
And the mug:
