#palmito

Round 2

Propaganda:

Wensleydale

Wallace and Gromit!

Actually such a tasty cheese

Absolute icon of yorkshire

Palmito

Legit cheese strings unlike the cheese stringman

Looks impressively strong should replace rope with this cheese

VIVA O SUL 🖤🌱

Handful of Sand

“Palm,”

A long black lock of hair skidded down, concealing half of a solemn face, a small breast, a meager wrist.

The blue veins expanded like streams and rivers, a particular shade of blue so rare Mito thought it a trick of light.

But the lights in her room never play tricks on her.

She can walk the entirety of Whale Island blindfolded, but can she walk this?

“Palm,”

A neck craned, old ivory, translucent ivory, salt and seashells and bubbling waves. If she touched it, it will turn into sand. A handful of sand and she will spend the night gathering them in her arms, falling asleep before she could ever hope to count all the grains.

She had seen what sand grains look under a microscope, in a picture, once. The woman before her was made of that, assembled from millions of particles gathered from a seashore far away in a land she didn’t know, or lands, or no place at all.

Everything has an origin.

The desire to touch the odd guest, for one.

“I used to be very ashamed of my body.” Palm murmured, as if reading the other’s mind. “I don’t anymore because it’s not quite human; creatures like me don’t know how to feel shame, I suppose. Or shouldn’t. I mean now no one expects me to… I mean all they hope for now is that I’d look normal.”

Palm didn’t look normal.

Was Mito hoping for that? She really wasn’t hoping for anything. Not consciously, anyway. Certainly not that the woman before her would look normal under the layers of clothes and hats, because the truth of her was pretty clear the moment they had shook hands for the first time.

Mito wasn’t a worldly woman but she wasn’t dumb. Her eyes were sharp and her senses sharper, and if there was anything she was sure of, it’s the scent of humans. This one didn’t smell quite right, but neither did any of Gon’s other friends. This woman had a scent closer to that of a curious predator trotting quietly in the night, an animal admirable in its persistence and perseverance, strong, but not enough to face a human, so it holds its ground before you, unmoving, and waits for the danger to pass.

Mito didn’t want to pass. Not there on the floor of her room half-naked with a woman who was not entirely a woman sharing air with her. So close they were she could almost see the colorful heart of every seemingly dull sand grain, the warm rivers bursting forth heedless of the snowy, frozen landscape.  

The careful predator just had to trust her long enough not to run away. Prod at its curiosity. Just had to stand before her long enough to smell the scent they shared, the scent of a common cause: both were out to hunt, and the sun had only just set.

There was still enough light to fold the dinner table and lock the doors of the house.  

There was her normal.

When the night unravels, the two singular companions draw their claws and sprint out barefooted into the warm, humid wilderness.

“Palm,”

A long black lock of hair tucked behind an ear.