Jam
By Rasetsu
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situation created and owned by Eiichiro Oda and various publishers including but not limited to Shonen Jump and TV Tokyo. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Yet.
11/27/2005
And the feeble brain scrambles desperately to translate.
- - - - - - -
There was a part of her that had atrophied a long time ago. She didn't have a name for it. Sometimes, especially when the weather is sunny and warm, she felt coldness in her bones and remembered the vestigial organ. It bothered her as much as their smiles did.
One day (sunny, warm, and disgustingly beautiful), she took her place under the sky and sat down on a wooden chair with a thick book. Nothingness filled the afternoon and yawns floated in the air, contagious. She closed her eyes and let the breeze take care of the world.
The boat rocked and all was well.
The chef, blond and sweet, came and held a plate in front of her face. Thinly sliced bread, red jam peeking out from the splits, stacked like a tower. Sandwich, he said, for a lady. She took the plate, smiling, and wondered how liberal he was with words, with her.
The word escaped her before she knew it was even there.
Why?
Because, he said after a heartbeat, you're worth it.
The answer didn't make any sense. She was a scientist. He was not. He didn't make any sense.
His words were harder to comprehend than the silent poneglyphs. They, at least, talked to her, one language to another. His words, however, did not have an equivalent. It needed a set of dead alphabets she didn't have anymore.
Robin-chan, he called.
She looked up and waited.
…
Do you want more jam?