We met for tea daily, partially because I feared he would leave and never return.
I reminded myself “same river, closer to the source” and reminded myself whatever I felt was likely small and trite compared to greater sensitivities I had not yet developed.
I protect privacy, sometimes, by writing about myself. I was annoyed at my report structure for suggesting dreams I did not have as I attempted to compile the ones I do choose to speak on into a compelling & accurate narrative. I explained that I used to be a writer.
…That speaking in metaphor was often safest until it wasn’t.
When people hate another person, everything they do is criminal if they have enough money and connections to keep you down.
I explained that I don’t choose to be the exception to every known human standard, but a commitment to whatever seemed most accurate seems to serve me better than choosing a narrative based on other’s comfort. Other people would not do the same for me.
Although this setting is now the fryn’ pan with brown featureless bench seating overlooking a car dealership, a full British tea is brought forth by an inexplicably British cat butler, including cress and cucumber finger sandwiches, treacle tarts, gluten free scones, and a strange inclusion of jammy dodgers and Cadbury dairy milk bars stacked artfully as the cat Butler sang a beautiful baritone rendition of “God Save the King” to the absolute confusion of the North Dakotan residents in the surrounding tables.
… Because I am a writer, and I can literally make two other cat Butlers arrive into the scene into a three part Gaelic harmony as everyone else claps on the wrong beats, awkwardly, as if compelled by an unseen force holding the pen against the throats of their lives. I abstain, just this once, and North Dakota hates me slightly less without knowing exactly ‘why’.
The rivers are toxic here, and the frogs are gay. The last, cleanest parts of the same river Naqshband met in imaginary diners to attempt to remove the medical waste and radioactive fallout of The Addict or The Nuclear Plant as I told him I stopped writing because the river before me was poisoned in Tehran.
He replies that it’s quite alright as his own was poisoned just outside of Easton, we can not help what other people do to our waters as we can not just allow ourselves to remain toxic.
A river without a Source runs dry. A river filled with toxins only spreads them downstream. The water, if damned, only increases in concentration of human sins.
As if on cue, a local approaches the table in disgust, as we spoke quietly and pleasantly on how nicely controlled the weather was today with aluminum nitrate and barium dispersal above the local military bases.
“YOU CATS MAKE ME SICK” She exclaimed, her porcine features and salon blonde hair framing her contempt.
We remain rather chuffed she considered us people; we aren’t the same when you step on us twice.
The Chronicals of Alaraf 