Page 6 of Palingenesis
It’s almost … creepy to be surrounded by so many celebratory emblems, colors, depictions of flames and light, and yet be shrouded in something akin to dread.
Like putting confetti on a dead town and calling it alive.
But I suck it up and take the judgement by squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin. The locals can be weary of the newcomer, that’s to be expected, though I refuse to keep letting this shit get to me.
This is my new beginning, too. Whether Henry decides to keep joining me in it or not.
The fact that my thoughts have drifted back to him steals some of the confidence I’ve mustered, and I end up dipping into the next store I can find.
And I’m immediately hit with the scent of a bakery. Fresh breads and buttery croissants mix with jams, glazes, and sickly-sweet frosting. Something savory pokes out from underneath all the sugars though and my stomach shakes with a hungry growl.
I tap my ear, turning on my devices, and I’m met with the sudden clank of a rushing kitchen coming to a halt. Voices cut off like someone pressed pause on a movie. For a moment, I question if the aids finally gave out, or if maybe I’ve lost my hearing capabilities all together before I look up to find the actual stares on me this time. Ones I can see, not just feel. Pointed. Not unkind but certainly confused.
“Well, that’s new,” the cashier blurts out and the older man beside him slaps a backhand across his chest. The gesture is friendly, familial, even if the sound of it landing made me internally cringe.
“Hi, how can we help you?” the older one asks as he wrings a towel in his grip.
I waft a hand in front of my nose, the tips of my fingers glancing off my chin next, then landing in the cradle of my left land. “Something smells good.”
“Holy shit, he just signed.”
Realization draws heat all the way up to the tips of my ears.
“Avery Jade,” the older man snaps, hip-checking the cashier away from his post and ushering me closer with a piece of paper.
Great. He thinks I can’t communicate unless I’m writing it down.
That sour pit in my stomach grows until I’m worried I’d be sick–if there was anything left in my stomach to lose. Maybe it would be more likely that I’d run out of the store with my tail between my legs, never to return again.
C’mon, Shannon, get your shit together.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, signing the words before accepting the paper. “I can speak and he—”
My breath hitches as my eyes catch on the words printed across the page, scratch that, it’s a menu. A printed menu. With little check boxes next to each item with clear descriptions, legible fonts, and pricing that can be filled out.
Without taking my eyes off the words, I tap below my ear, and blink really hard against suddenly blurry vision.
“I have hearing aids,” I say, my voice thick. “But I sign, too. Sorry.”
I snag one of the pens in front of me and take my time filling out the menu. It’s a distraction so I don’t have to meet the eyes of these two men that have been more accessible than anyone in my past life–my fucking partner included.
It’s like a punch to the gut knowing that kind people exist in the world and by the time I’ve finished filling in the boxes of what I want, I’m certain that I’ve added too many.
I’m not even sure what I chose in the end.
But then the older man winks at me when he accepts the page, nodding at my selections and hands it to the cashier.
“Family discount,” the man mumbles as he walks toward the back.
The cashier grins at me. “How about a trade instead?” he suggests, watching me intently. “Teach me some signs and I’ll buy your lunch completely.”
With my stomach in my throat, I shake my head. “I can pay just fine.”
“But if you show me, you won’t need the paper or the hearing aids next time you come in.”
My lips snap shut.
How can one set of men have more effort in their pinkies than my own parents? Exes? And why am I fawning over the ease of their character so damn willingly that I almost cave and ask for the guy's number? Not even in a hookup kind of way but, fuck, I don’t even know. He’s probably not even queer.
