dead languages
Charles’ hands were in opposition to his profession; his knuckles were thick as industrial knots, broad ridged palms with the colours of callous. These hands did not match the gently turned parchment of dead languages in white gloves. Charles turned the last page of the evening with his right hand. The left noted in his pocketbook his predicted translations. He would have liked to stay but the mother of his child would already be a cut snake that he’d missed supper. She was upset by most things, but tradition demands a son have a father.
He carried his first love as an alcoholic would a tray of drinks to the shelf at the long end of the corridor. “If only he could hold her like this,’ he thought as he moonwalked his fingers down the ridge between spine and cover. He retraced his echo, packed his tweezers, dictionaries, pencils and notebooks into his satchel and heaved it over his shoulder. The left hand was busy with lights and locks on the way out: The wood waved in onerous creaks as the last door closed.
Charles adjusted his satchel and set out. He followed his lamp line towards home, past the closed museums, galleries, and banks where brickwork mimicked sunlight. The softness of the city centre gave up 4 blocks out and people poured from pubs, lined the gutters and huddled in the dark edges of alleys. Everything bar information was available here.
At his halfway point was the Pegasus Inn. Charles stopped for a brandy and last consolidation of the days’ translations most nights. Tonight he was wondering if he’d ever find a true connection between the similarities of the golden ratio arcs used in Olmec and Linear A.
The barmaid was a strange reminder of those curves. She drew shapes with her dainty fingers while they were looking for the right tap, bottle, glass or change. Her red hair helped add to the story of magic he invented while he juggled his work, his duty but also his lust.
Charles was too much of a coward to go after anything except dead answers. She called the last drinks and the bar emptied. Charles packed slowly and swallowed like a lizard sipping. She watched him through the dirty glasses piled up but couldn’t be sure who was doing the staring.
Charles left through the door right on the tick of midnight but lingered outside to roll a cigarette. His fat fingers turned this paper with the same reverence he had for the pages earlier. He knew each minute was another note up the Richter scale of shrill and yet he still went slowly, licking and lighting it before even flinching forward to step.
The barmaid came out with her hands sinking themselves into the pockets with the keys as soundtrack. She saw him leaning on the wall at the left, he raised a hand to wave and she thrust underneath.
Charles lay next to a receipt that came from the barmaid’s pocket. The numbers and letters slowly bled into one another and Charles pressed his thick left thumb deep into his belly.
