She's Not Musical Part 2

Maybe it was the way he stared at me, earnest and unflinching, seeming truly desirous of sampling what I had in my stew pot.  Maybe I was just taken aback by his forwardness.  I found myself nodding assent, eyes lowered, backing into the kitchen.

The liquid had thickened, formed a thin skin surrounding the wooden spoon standing as if a ghost hand were poised ready to stir.  I grabbed at it and it slipped slightly.  The bubbles burst, belching humid clouds of cooked spices and salted chicken.

I pulled two plates from the cabinet, spooned a curved mound of basmati rice in the center of each, then pressed a ladle of the curry in the center.  Some of the juices ran to the edge of the plate.  I automatically wiped it clean and licked my finger, only to look up embarrassed that he’d been watching me serve and swipe, although I had the feeling he was not the kind to mind the possible health code violation.

I extended a dish and gestured to the dining table not even actually set for one, with my research materials lording over most of the squat square of oak.  He pushed the books aside with a casual sweep of a forearm and I found myself thinking (again) how familiar the movements seemed to him.

We sat at a companionable right angle.  He ate and talked; I pushed my food around and tried to listen.  He told me about his childhood in between wolfish bites of rice and curry.  “You want to know how I learned how to fix a piano?” he said between chews.

“Umm, yes?” I murmured more a question than a statement.  Did I want to know? 

“My parents went out for the day.  I was thirteen.  I was bored with playing music so I took our upright grand, apart.  I got all the pieces out and laid them on the floor.  It took a while.  Then I realized it was nearly five o’clock and if I didn’t get it all back together my father would beat me.”  He paused.  His fork stopped its attack on the last bite of chicken. 

“My father used to beat me.  He said I was stupid.”  He didn’t stop looking at my face.  I tried to arrange it in a manner that would not betray my surprise at his story, or the fact that he was sitting at my table, eating my food and telling me these things.

“My teachers thought I was retarded,” he said with that last bite tucked between his cheek and gum.  A bit of rice clung to his beard, just below his lip.  “I couldn’t read.  They didn’t know that I had dyslexia.  My father beat me all the time.”  He said these things laundry list style.  No emotion.  I couldn’t help getting distracted at that bit of rice now swaying at the end of a longer chin hair.

He put his hand, still curled into a fist around his fork, out to graze my knuckles.  “It is hard, you know?”

 

Reviews

[Daryl]

I was glad to see this after I read Part 1. I hope there'll be a Part 3!

[Jack Frost v.2]

ok, i should have probably started with part one, but so far i love, great description and a wonderful set up. love it

[Blackbirdsong]

Oh finally the next part of this story! Please please please tell me there's more to come. I really love the two characters you're creating. The story the man is telling is quite compelling. Heck even the rice in his beard is compelling.

Great and glorious work as always :)

[R J Askew]

It is as if there are several stories going on here! The descriptiveness matches that of the first part, especially, 'The bubbles burst, belching humid clouds of cooked spices and salted chicken.' The spoon sticking in the pot may be, ahem, suggestive, also. The best touch for me was 'companionable right angle', loved that bit. Again, these two are NOT opposites! The story of the guy's sad background is moving, his being beaten is horrible. He sounds as if he may be autistic as well as dyslexic. There seems to be a meeting of minds between the two underdogs, if the woman may be so described, at least on account of the singing slight she labours under. Yes, it is sad to hear of his being beaten. And though this is a short piece, there is a lot in it...the bit about dismantling the piano gives a large image of bits spread across the floor. And from that we go to the micro observation about the piece of rice. More please! Happy new year meanwhile!