The exercise:
Write about: the premium.
Safe and sound in Vancouver, happy to be with old friends again.
Having trouble staying awake, so I'll save anything more for another day.
Mine:
"That's the finest wine we carry, sir." The waiter wouldn't meet my eye when he said it, preferring instead to focus on the notepad in his hand. "I highly recommend that you try it."
"Really." I looked at the wine list again. "So you've had some yourself then?"
"Oh, no sir."
"No?"
"That is correct, sir."
A sigh escaped my lips but I managed to refrain from massaging my temples.
"And why is that?"
"Well, sir," he replied slowly, as though I were the slow one, "I couldn't possibly afford it."
3 comments:
Congratulations on the safe trip! Sleep well :)
Heh, that waiter definitely has the upper hand in this conversation, and that's a pretty good response as well!
The premium
Dust fell softly from the ceiling in a near-constant rain. The air was hazed with it, and anything left out quickly acquired a soft, grey, fuzzy coating. It brushed away easily enough, though it tended to accumulate in little drifts at the skirting boards and on the window sills. At first it was kind of fun, darting through the room and then turning back to see the dust swirling along a trail left behind, gradually filling in again with near invisible grey motes.
But after an hour, where she'd tried to read but had to keep brushing the dust off her tablet, and she'd tried to write letters home (the old fashioned way with a pen and paper!) and... had to keep brushing the dust away, and she'd tried looking out of the window at the mansion's gardens, but had had to keep blinking to keep the dust out of her eyes, she descended to the reception.
The receptionist brushed dust off the signing-in book, and smiled.
"I'd like a room without dust, please," she said. The receptionist's smile became glassy, but otherwise unchanged.
"There are none," he said, his voice even and deep. It was slightly soothing. "All our rooms have dust."
"I'm paying a premium for my room! I--"
"You must be Miss Alexandra, then?"
She was so surprised at being interrupted that she could only nod.
"There is extra dust in your room, in accordance with the premium charge."
"But why?" It came out as more of a scream than a question, and she felt her heart pounding in her chest. "Why?"
"Have you looked in a mirror yet?"
She shook her head, puzzled. The receptionist produced a small, gold-backed hand-mirror that was clearly kept at the desk for this very reason. She stared into it, and a much younger woman stared back at her.
"Oh," she said, her voice suddenly soft and contemplative.
"Would you like to keep your room, Miss?"
"Oh. Oh yes."
I had never before seen meat that wasn’t cooked and garnished on a china plate before me. There was blood everywhere. Blood and flies. I could see the bones, the feet, the heads. The poor lamb’s eyes stared unblinking right at me from their forgotten place next to the butcher’s red-soaked worn leather boots.
“Best premium lamb around!” the teller shouted. “No finer. Not even on the king’s table!”
That I would have to argue against.
Greg - hmm, all that dust seems a small price to pay for those results! Assuming, of course, there are no side effects...
Ivybennet - eek, that would be an unsettling sight for many of us, I should think. I can just imagine how a royal would feel!
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