The Visitor's Call
(Marc Chagall, "Violiniste" - 1923/4)
Click, fire, and instant composure. In six years he still hadn't learned to roll his own. But neither of them minded. The yellow roller turned out each joint with assembly-line precision. It was their Friday night ritual to cover the work-week in smoke and ashes, and the little machine was part of it.
He dimmed the light and she lit the candle. They held the chopsticks, half-naked and careful, and took time with each maki piece. Dipping it in soy-sauce and then lifting it to their lips with an awkward grace. When the sushi was gone they struggled with the chopsticks to pick up the fallen bits of caviar. After a few strained minutes she gave in, and they took turns licking one another's fingertips.
"It taste's much better this way," he said.
"I'll never understand how something so small has so much taste," she said. "Where does it carry all that taste?"
He was wondering something similar. How something so small could cost so much.
"The mysteries of caviar," he said.
They left everything in the kitchen and walked through the dark corridor toward the bedroom. Through the walls, the sound of voices and feet shuffling down the hall. He watched them through the eyehole - strangers knocking at someone else's door.
Slow, sensual drum and base was playing on the laptop.
"It's dark out," she said. "It's strange how I never notice the moment it goes dark."
"The mysteries of night," he said.
He sat down at the laptop as raindrops began pitter-pattering at the window. He stroked his thumb gently across the touch-pad and brought the screen to life. An artificial glow filled the room.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"I like this song," he said. "I want to see who plays it."
A sound, like the call of some high-pitched digital bird, cut through the drum and base as a messenger-box flashed onto the screen. Then another, and another.
"It's Mindy in Spain," he said. "Mindy's online in Spain."
His fingers danced wildly across the keys and left slight smudges of caviar.
"Do you have to talk to her now?" she asked.
"I'm just responding," he said. "She's all the way in Spain."
"Yes, but does it have to be now? I mean, right now?"
"It's just that she happens to be online right now," he said. "I'd hate for her to think we're ignoring her."
"Yes, I suppose," she said as she slipped on her jeans and t-shirt.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"I feel a breeze," she said.
He closed the window and walked over to her in the glowing light.
"Don't be like that," he said. He helped her out of her clothes and they made love slowly, and she felt the night and the rain close in around them.
Then as they lay like autumn leaves strewn across the sheets the phone rang and he stood to answer it.
"It could be anyone," he said.
He returned after seven minutes. There was a half-lit cigarette in an ashtray on the bed, but she was gone. She'd noticed someone, a vague shadow, strolling and splashing in the puddles outside.
He dimmed the light and she lit the candle. They held the chopsticks, half-naked and careful, and took time with each maki piece. Dipping it in soy-sauce and then lifting it to their lips with an awkward grace. When the sushi was gone they struggled with the chopsticks to pick up the fallen bits of caviar. After a few strained minutes she gave in, and they took turns licking one another's fingertips.
"It taste's much better this way," he said.
"I'll never understand how something so small has so much taste," she said. "Where does it carry all that taste?"
He was wondering something similar. How something so small could cost so much.
"The mysteries of caviar," he said.
They left everything in the kitchen and walked through the dark corridor toward the bedroom. Through the walls, the sound of voices and feet shuffling down the hall. He watched them through the eyehole - strangers knocking at someone else's door.
Slow, sensual drum and base was playing on the laptop.
"It's dark out," she said. "It's strange how I never notice the moment it goes dark."
"The mysteries of night," he said.
He sat down at the laptop as raindrops began pitter-pattering at the window. He stroked his thumb gently across the touch-pad and brought the screen to life. An artificial glow filled the room.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"I like this song," he said. "I want to see who plays it."
A sound, like the call of some high-pitched digital bird, cut through the drum and base as a messenger-box flashed onto the screen. Then another, and another.
"It's Mindy in Spain," he said. "Mindy's online in Spain."
His fingers danced wildly across the keys and left slight smudges of caviar.
"Do you have to talk to her now?" she asked.
"I'm just responding," he said. "She's all the way in Spain."
"Yes, but does it have to be now? I mean, right now?"
"It's just that she happens to be online right now," he said. "I'd hate for her to think we're ignoring her."
"Yes, I suppose," she said as she slipped on her jeans and t-shirt.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"I feel a breeze," she said.
He closed the window and walked over to her in the glowing light.
"Don't be like that," he said. He helped her out of her clothes and they made love slowly, and she felt the night and the rain close in around them.
Then as they lay like autumn leaves strewn across the sheets the phone rang and he stood to answer it.
"It could be anyone," he said.
He returned after seven minutes. There was a half-lit cigarette in an ashtray on the bed, but she was gone. She'd noticed someone, a vague shadow, strolling and splashing in the puddles outside.
posted by Spcmnspff at 11:02 AM
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