dream brother with your tears scattered

i  saw  ilya  yi  at  a  coffee  shop  in  manhattan  today.  i  forgot  how  much  he  looks  like  lee  dong  wook.  they  are  a  thirty-nine  year  old  retired  figure  skater  who’s  been  in  nyc  for  six  years  now.  every  time  we  run  into  each  other,  they  are  always  clever  &  perceptive  but  i’ve  heard  people  say  they  can  also  be  withdrawn  &  strict.  lilac  wine  by  jeff  buckley  reminds  me  of  them  every  time  it  comes  on  the  radio. 

      Ari was RESTLESS. there’s been three nights in a row where all he can do is lay in bed awake at 3 a.m, letting useless thoughts and worries fill his head as the overthinker he truly was. On the fourth night, he decided to take action instead of staying in bed and had managed to put good use of his mid-night energy. Of course, as things go, his experiment resulted in six batches of pastel de elote that he’s sure his family would only consume a small portion of; alas the morning after the chef decided to go out there and try to give away the rest to whatever gentle soul he could find in his morning stroll. Reason why he found himself standing in front of a coffee shop early morning with a tray of desserts on hand after taking Bella to the school, not quite sure what to do next. 

      At the sight of someone passing by him, supposedly going for their morning fix of coffee (something the chef himself had done over ten minutes ago) Ari reached out, a warm and anxious smile spreading over his features. “ Hi, would you be interested in some baked goods? They are free and sweet” the young chef vowed, a nervous chuckle escaping him.  “I promise they are clean— I’ll have one with you if you think it’ll ease your mind, they are these Mexican desserts made with corn… they go great with coffee!” he added. Although perhaps the desserts were the result of stress-baking and melancholy, the details didn’t need to be revealed, necessarily, especially in the morning. // @villagestart​

there  was  a  febrile  nature  to  his  old  wounds,  hot  and  uncomfortable,  worse  in  the  morning  and  tender  to  the  touch,  always.  they  kept  him  up  in  strange  ways,  sometimes  medication  could  cut  the  sensation  of  sinew  twisting  and  tearing,  of  bone  grinding  against  bone,  but  he’d  given  up  on  most  treatments  and  resigned  himself,  as  if  to  punish  his  body  for  breaking  down,  to  moving  along  regardless.  

he  did  his  best  to  walk  every  day,  even  in  the  city,  where  it  always  felt  a  little  disgusting,  tainting,  to  take  a  full,  deep  breath.  he  found  new  alcoves  each  time,  cafes  inhabiting  those  small  spaces  between  elegant  chain  boutiques  and  worn  out  apartment  buildings,  his  favourite  of  which  was  an  easy  six  minute  trek  (  or  maybe  fifteen,  when  he  was  as  sore  as  he  was,  )  from  his  own  place.  he  aimed  to  slip  inside,  not  entirely  paying  attention  to  the  person  outside  of  the  door  until  he  realizes  he’s  being  spoken  to.

“  free  and  sweet,  “  he  echoed,  focusing  on  the  food  in  question.  it  looked  delicious,  especially  to  ilya’s  empty  stomach,  and  so  a  hand  was  offered  to  receive  the  treat  with  a  small  but  thankful  nod,  “  do  you  work  here?  i  didn’t  know  they  sold  anything  other  than  coffee...  “

      Another bartender fired. It was the fifth one in a span of three months and the rooftop bar/lounge owner couldn’t quite find trustworthy sources to hire another one for the night. Certainly, she knew they would have a new one by the morning but alas, she was bartender-less on one of the islands and, not being one used to admitting defeat under any circumstance, the businesswoman found herself serving shots and cocktails alike for patrons and friends alike.

      Upon sensing a new presence on a stool in front of herself, Yolo smirked immediately. “Welcome to Zafire, what can I get for you? May I suggest our Mango Jalapeño Margarita? It’s our special and I can personally vouch for it. Never been one for cocktails myself, this may be the one I seem to endure— our Peach Bellini is another must-have” she recited, grabbing the glass of wine she had poured for herself only a few minutes ago “First drink is on the house.” 

a  passive,  contemplative  expression as  wrists  greet  the  surface  of  the  bar,  “  mango…  jalapeno?  “  sweetness,  spice  and  alcohol,  his  interest  was  piqued  and  in  spite  of  his  intention  to  get  drunk  on  rakia  and  cherry  wine,  he  was  easily  tempted,  “  i’ll  try  it,  though  like  you,  i’m  not  a  cocktail  person,  “  an  even  pause  and  a  wry,  upward  twist  to  his  lips,    “  too  easy  to  forget  i’m  drinking  if  it’s  so  sweet,  i  think,  “

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dezzie  sat  at  a  small  table  in  the  back,  a  headphone  in  one  ear  as  she  listened  to  the  podcast  she  had  chosen.  it  wasn’t  anything  significant,  but  it  was  background  noise  aside  from  the  busy  coffee  shop.  it  was  her  self  proclaimed  day  off,  and  all  she  wanted  was  a  ice  coffee  and  some  piece  and  quiet,  but  instead  she  got  a  bowl  full  of  drama.  the  girl  groaned  and  sighed  as  she  went  through  the  comments  on  a  video.  one  of  her  friends  was  the  new  target  of  a  group  of  trolls  on  the  website.  it  was  something  she  had  brushed  off  herself  time  and  time  again,  but  it  always  felt  different  when  it  was  someone  she  cared  about.  the  girl  speedily  texted  a  reply  to  one  of  them  before  closing  her  phone  and  taking  a  deep  breath.  the  girl  sipped  her  coffee,  trying  not  to  let  it  all  get  to  her.  "fucking  idiot.“  she  muttered  under  her  breath,  not  thinking  about  anyone  being  around  her. 

slender  fingers  supported  the  plate  he’d  been  served,  balancing  a  mug  and  a  bright  pink  cake-pop  as  he  weaved  through  the  shop  in  search  of  an  unoccupied  table.  he  was  not  often  found  in  chain  coffee  shops,  having  been  scorned  more  than  once  in  new  york  alone,  but  the  enticing  nature  of  warm  coffee  to  accompany  a  book  was  stronger  than  his  disgust.  he  must’ve  skimmed  too  close  to  the  back,  catching  an  expletive  that  made  him  reflexively  turn  his  gaze,  incredulous,  to  the  speaker,  dipping  his  head  in  the  smallest  form  of  apology,  “  sorry,  did  i  bump  you?  “