Kallista Pendragon sighed and looked on wistfully at the sharply-dressed dancers criss-crossing the ballroom floor, and- not for the first time that night- wished that someone would swoop in and dance with her.
A laughing couple passed by her and didn’t even spare her a glance; instead, they took two of the champagne glasses that Kallista balanced expertly on a silver platter. She itched uncomfortably at the white bib around her neck that symbolized that she was a waiter. She nervously darted around the procession of dancers and made her way to the kitchen doors. They swung upon and she avoided all and pulled open the nearest refrigerator. Kallista refilled the champagne flutes and exited the kitchen. She completed another full rotation of the floor before standing quietly by the bar.
There was only one other occupant of the bar. Even the woman who had been cleaning the glasses with a dirty rag had left. The remaining person had the appearance of a middle-aged man, with cheeks full of stubble and a rough beard sitting around his mouth.
She resumed staring wistfully at the procession of dancers, and he pulled something from his side and slammed it down onto the bar.
It looked like a large metal army surplus canteen. It was shining silver and was engraved with the initials 'I.E'. But it wasn't a canteen, Kallista knew. It was an oversized hipflask.
That's as far as I got. Where was I headed? Israel is drunk and tries to dance and ends up falling asleep. End of story. Possibly the worst story idea I've ever had, and thus the reason that I stopped shortly after starting. Kal, I really am trying to write up that dance story properly. I might incorporate it into your bday story, if you give me time. Actually, yes, I've got a brilliant idea. No need to write up a dance, Kal, I'll put it in the Bday story.
Ok, good. That's all sorted. And yes. Israel has a hip flask the size of an army canteen. People, I don't even know. This is Israel. He gets drunk. He has a rough beard. He has been mistaken for a homeless man on many, many occasions. You really need to stop getting your hopes up about this guy. He's not going to shrug off his coat and have a suit underneath. Just another coat.
Ok. Moving on. What else do I have? I have a short piece I wrote on the 16 hour bus trip to Canberra. I expected myself to write tonnes, and I wrote a little more than 300 words...
I lay back in my uncomfortable seat on the bus and sigh. It's 2am. My eyes feel like closing over, yet I know sleep will not claim me as fast.
My friend beside me is asleep. The people on my left, across the aisle, are asleep. Everyone seems to be. Except me.
My headphones are plugged in, under the fluffy hat I wear to keep my ears warm. The music is full of quotable lyrics and soft, slow rhythms.
I have a lot on my mind.
The facade is gone. No-one's up to see it, so why should I bother? So, without the facade or anyone to talk to, my heavy thoughts are my only company. Thoughts of hate, thoughts of distrust and thoughts of fear and anxiety.
I should get some sleep. Of course I should. Wake up and don the mask again tomorrow, and it'll all be fine. Wear it all week, wear it when I get home. Even when I talk online, I wear it. Because without it, all of my hate and anger shines through. Every wrong someone has committed against me floats to the front of my mind.
A fox makes a dash for the median, tries to cross as we approach. The bus lurches and brakes as the driver goes to avoid it. I glimpse it's face, the tiny yellow orbs as they stare at impending death, unable to move.
And then we've passed it, and I have no idea if it escaped or not.
I change the song.
The night is beautiful. A perfect night for torture, as Serpine would say. But still, above all else... I can't stop thinking. But I won't try and put it on here. I'll try in the morning.
I never really got to bed. I drifted in and out of sleep, and at around 5am, the bus started to wake up again. I missed the sunrise. Now it's 10am, 12 hours since we left. We should be there in 4 hours time.
And now, 6 hours later, I'm sitting on a bunk bed in the small building-type thing that will be our home for the next few days. I still don't want to write about things bothering me.
So, that was that. I think it was back in August, I'm not sure. I don't even remember what was bothering me. Emails, I think, because I remember desperately trying to get an internet connection in the plazas we visited and looking at long emails on the bus.
The line "makes a dash for the median" is from a song I was listening to at the time, Tin, by Everything Everything (Please click this link, this song is very cool and awesome and good for listening to at night in the car. Find the lyrics...) which is, indeed, about a fox that crosses the road and gets killed. It has some beautiful imagery and the lyrics are some of the most quotable things I have ever had the joy of listening to/reading.
anemone, pool of rocks.
Why'd you see
an enemy I could not?
Could there be
a more heavenly artifact,
as pure as that?
Just brilliant. And yes, at the time, a fox did try to cross and I glimpsed it as the driver screeched the brakes to stop in time, awaking a few questioning students. I swear, I was the only one to see that fox.
Ok. It's 10pm. Still got a bit of a headache from yesterday, and I'm famished for food. So, instead of being smart and going to bed NOW, I'm going to watch Kill Bill instead XD
I know these posts have been kinda shortish and sorta lamish and I have no idea where I was going with half of them BUT HEY, tomorrow's post should be good! Just sit tight until then :D