Fragment (consider revising)
Apr. 2nd, 2008 06:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sub_dividedThis was written a looooooong time ago, for kinked. (Which is dead now I guess.) I never posted it, because 1) original fiction LOL, and 2) it's unfinished. Though 2) is sort of academic since even if I'd gotten to where I originally planned to end the piece (with the narrator looking up and noticing the pretty lights on the ceiling), there still wouldn't have been any point or plot. This was just supposed to be a writing exercise, and I could easily have finished it before deadline, only I guess I was reluctant to because I (unexpectedly) really liked the characters and I wanted to give them a real plot. ^^; But I never did, and so here we are today.
Chandelier
I thought the door would have a unique sound, but at Greg's push it opened with the same noncommittal note the bank down the street had used. Inside, the walls were pinkish red -- a faded amaranth -- and the floor was delicate pale brown, almost an eggshell color, broken up by half a dozen area rugs, tan to ochre, with black borders. The pictures on the wall were thin-line ink drawings of flowers on parchment, with chartreuse and gold gilt wooden frames. I admit I was a little disappointed. The room was serviceable, but I had really expected more from the shop of such a famous craftsman, whose chandeliers were favored by so many of designers I admired. That particular combination of colors -- and the air of stylishly offbeat decadence it tended to signify -- was at that time ragingly popular, but the really fashionable people had already dropped it.
I kept this assessment to myself, but Greg, who has always felt himself freer to express such things, snorted and, seeing he'd drawn my gaze, rolled his eyes in the direction of the magenta crushed velvet sofa in the corner. I smiled wanly to show I was in on the joke, but really I was conscious of the shop's proprietor seated behind the counter a dozen feet away. Generally I do not like to insult the taste of anyone I have not yet met, though by appearances the man was too engaged in critical contemplation of the ceiling to take note of what we did, and had barely glanced at us as we'd stepped through the door. In any case it was not the man's walls or furniture we had come to admire, but his light fixtures. There were perhaps a dozen of these suspended from the ceiling, all around eye level -- if one happened to be monstrously tall, like Greg. I found myself looking up.
Unfortunately they, too, were a disappointment. I am not an expert, but at first glance the chandeliers, though well crafted, were nothing out of the ordinary. Granted, they were made of very high quality crystal; even in the shop's ordinary lighting, which was little more than the sunlight coming in from the window by the door, they caught, reflected, and amplified light in a way that was beautiful to see. But the pattern of the crystals, the way they're been strung together, was nothing special. Though it was hard to believe, this man's fans -- those designers I so admired -- must have been taken in by the quality of the materials, and overlooked the dullness of the design.
Greg crossed the room from one end to the other with that purposeful stride he uses when he suspects his time has been wasted. In four or five places, he stopped abruptly, stared levelly at the chandeliers for a second or two, and then strode away in much the same mood. My walk does not devour carpet as his does and I cannot keep up with him when he is like this. Usually, I do not try. At any rate, Greg soon decided that he'd seen enough.
"It is mystery how anyone with taste could be taken in by mere sparkle," he said, not really to me as much as to the room at large. He cast a derisive look at the proprietor to see how this comment had been received, but the man only sent back a vague, friendly smile before returning to his gaze to the ceiling. With a final snort, Greg strode over to the door.
"Let's go, there's nothing to see here," he said, pulling it open.
"In a minute," I said. Greg turned to me with disbelief spreading across his face. I tried to communicate in a look how much of a shame it would be to leave so soon after having gone so far out of our way, as well as my desire not to injure the feelings of the shop's owner. I suspect that all Greg saw was an apology, because he said "I'll be at the café down the street" magnanimously, as if he were granting a pardon. He's always been like that, making allowances he normally wouldn't where I am concerned, granting concessions to sentimental whims of mine when he has no patience for anyone else's.
The door closed with a dull chime. I turned to smile pleasantly at the shopkeeper, only to find myself taken aback by the calculation in his eyes. I thought he might be wondering about the relationship between Greg and I -- it's not uncommon -- so I shrugged, a suitably ambiguous response, and politely made a show of examining the chandeliers again. On closer inspection, there was something unusual about the way the individual teardrop crystals had been cut. However, my examination was mostly for show; in matters of taste, I generally follow Greg's lead, as he has twice my talent, though nowhere near my level of experience.
When I had satisfied myself that I had given no offense, I turned to go.
***
Thus ended my (brief) foray into origfic.
Chandelier
I thought the door would have a unique sound, but at Greg's push it opened with the same noncommittal note the bank down the street had used. Inside, the walls were pinkish red -- a faded amaranth -- and the floor was delicate pale brown, almost an eggshell color, broken up by half a dozen area rugs, tan to ochre, with black borders. The pictures on the wall were thin-line ink drawings of flowers on parchment, with chartreuse and gold gilt wooden frames. I admit I was a little disappointed. The room was serviceable, but I had really expected more from the shop of such a famous craftsman, whose chandeliers were favored by so many of designers I admired. That particular combination of colors -- and the air of stylishly offbeat decadence it tended to signify -- was at that time ragingly popular, but the really fashionable people had already dropped it.
I kept this assessment to myself, but Greg, who has always felt himself freer to express such things, snorted and, seeing he'd drawn my gaze, rolled his eyes in the direction of the magenta crushed velvet sofa in the corner. I smiled wanly to show I was in on the joke, but really I was conscious of the shop's proprietor seated behind the counter a dozen feet away. Generally I do not like to insult the taste of anyone I have not yet met, though by appearances the man was too engaged in critical contemplation of the ceiling to take note of what we did, and had barely glanced at us as we'd stepped through the door. In any case it was not the man's walls or furniture we had come to admire, but his light fixtures. There were perhaps a dozen of these suspended from the ceiling, all around eye level -- if one happened to be monstrously tall, like Greg. I found myself looking up.
Unfortunately they, too, were a disappointment. I am not an expert, but at first glance the chandeliers, though well crafted, were nothing out of the ordinary. Granted, they were made of very high quality crystal; even in the shop's ordinary lighting, which was little more than the sunlight coming in from the window by the door, they caught, reflected, and amplified light in a way that was beautiful to see. But the pattern of the crystals, the way they're been strung together, was nothing special. Though it was hard to believe, this man's fans -- those designers I so admired -- must have been taken in by the quality of the materials, and overlooked the dullness of the design.
Greg crossed the room from one end to the other with that purposeful stride he uses when he suspects his time has been wasted. In four or five places, he stopped abruptly, stared levelly at the chandeliers for a second or two, and then strode away in much the same mood. My walk does not devour carpet as his does and I cannot keep up with him when he is like this. Usually, I do not try. At any rate, Greg soon decided that he'd seen enough.
"It is mystery how anyone with taste could be taken in by mere sparkle," he said, not really to me as much as to the room at large. He cast a derisive look at the proprietor to see how this comment had been received, but the man only sent back a vague, friendly smile before returning to his gaze to the ceiling. With a final snort, Greg strode over to the door.
"Let's go, there's nothing to see here," he said, pulling it open.
"In a minute," I said. Greg turned to me with disbelief spreading across his face. I tried to communicate in a look how much of a shame it would be to leave so soon after having gone so far out of our way, as well as my desire not to injure the feelings of the shop's owner. I suspect that all Greg saw was an apology, because he said "I'll be at the café down the street" magnanimously, as if he were granting a pardon. He's always been like that, making allowances he normally wouldn't where I am concerned, granting concessions to sentimental whims of mine when he has no patience for anyone else's.
The door closed with a dull chime. I turned to smile pleasantly at the shopkeeper, only to find myself taken aback by the calculation in his eyes. I thought he might be wondering about the relationship between Greg and I -- it's not uncommon -- so I shrugged, a suitably ambiguous response, and politely made a show of examining the chandeliers again. On closer inspection, there was something unusual about the way the individual teardrop crystals had been cut. However, my examination was mostly for show; in matters of taste, I generally follow Greg's lead, as he has twice my talent, though nowhere near my level of experience.
When I had satisfied myself that I had given no offense, I turned to go.
***
Thus ended my (brief) foray into origfic.