Story no. 30. Progress! And 3/30 for April, and this time it’s actually still April 3rd even in Switzerland!
Beatrice saw the man with the glasses and the shaved head again a week later. She refused to admit to herself that she had deliberately called Mr. Billings with questions about her contract that could only be resolved in person so that she could wander the UCL campus hopefully.
But her embarrassment withered when she saw him across the yard. “Hullo! Excuse me! Sir!”
The moment he caught sight of her his whole body seemed to expand. “Oh! It is you . . . ! The woman from the, er, the – “
“The toilet, yes.” Beatrice stopped in front of him, gasping, and realized she’d been running. “Pardon – “
“My name is Khirlaeon,” he said, bowing. “Erabach Khirlaeon. Do you want to shake hands as well? I felt very stupid when I realized we had not exchanged names.”
“Shaking hands is nice – I did as well – my name’s Beatrice B. Smithwick,” she said, holding out a hand and laughing.
No. 29, and 2/30 in the April business.
Her friend smelled like fruit and artificial flowers. “Okay, I really have to go. I have to get home for Matt’s thing,” Emma said, releasing Hanna from the long hug.
“Who’s Matt?” her roommate asked.
“My oldest brother,” Emma said shortly.
“I thought it was just you and Steve,” Hanna said in surprise.
“Steve’s my only full brother, yeah. My mom was married before.”
Hanna moseyed across their tiny kitchen to peek out the window onto Central Square. “Looks cold out there. So you’ve got a half-brother? Any other siblings I don’t know about?”
“Matt’s the oldest of five in that bunch.”
“Holy shit,” Hanna said, turning to fix her with pale stunned eyes behind her dark glasses. “How did you never mention that?”
Emma shrugged. “My family history is . . .weird. I’d better get going.”
Story no. 29. Some of my friends are doing a 30/30 poem-a-day challenge for April. As I am not a poet, I am going to try to update this blog every day for this month.
Clunk. Clunk clunk clunk. Splash. Clunk.
Tamarla peeked out of the third-story window of the crag house built on the stone in the middle of the river. A dark figure stood on the bank at the end of the chain bridge. It paced back and forth over the dirty quay, pulling bricks and stones loose from the wall to hurl across the river at his door.
“Tamarla, come out,” a voice like honey and the view from a lion’s stomach called. “I want to talk to you. I need you to make me a vest.”
Tamarla the tailor eased the window open a finger’s-width. “Come over the bridge, and I’ll measure you,” he said over the water. Another stone arched through the air before chocking against the wood of the door below him.