tragic_mask | (no subject)

"That was Aunt Ruby," he says after a moment, "her younger sister. She was out with Uncle Max, going to visit his sister. Disappointed that Grand Central Station wasn't the way it used to be... they're going to Florida this year instead, so we won't see them unless we go to Minnesota."

She looks at him with a raised eyebrow.

"No relative is worth the sacrifice of going to Minnesota. New York is the coldest place I'm going."

"They have summer in Minnesota too, you know," he chuckles. "It lasts a week and it usually rains, but there's no snow on the ground."

"That's no way to live," she says, shaking her head at him.

"It's in my blood. In the old country, they say there wasn't even that much--you'd go straight from spring to fall. The leaves grew in already red and yellow."

"Ah, well, forgive me for enjoying the greenery, and the flowers in bloom, and the breeze in the summertime."

"I may forgive you--but only if you wear flowers in your hair. Like you did the night of that art show--remember? I can still picture you then."

"I suppose memory is as good a medium as any."

"It's not really suited to interpretive dance. I could make a sculpture, but... metal can't quite capture all the colors."

"But it's all about the interpretation, isn't it? The colors don't have to be there, if the movement is."

"Mmmm... when we get home, I may try," he says. "In bronze, I think. You, with the flowers in your hair, leaning down to fasten your shoe..."

"I could be a good model... Apparently I'm extraordinarily patient," she says.

"When we get home again, I'll take you up on that," he says. "You have beautiful hands, you know. I like them best when they're a little ink-smudged."

She sets down her mug to look at the hands in question, ruefully.

"They serve their purpose well enough. I don't know what constitutes beauty, in hands."

"Proportions--yours are perfectly proportioned, both to the rest of you and to themselves. There's a grace in the way you hold and move them. They're stronger than they look, too."

"They can lift a pen, anyway. And that's what matters."

"They do much more than that," he says with a smile. "Have you ever considered being a hand model? You could have them take pictures of whichever one you're not using to write."

"Oh, I haven't. But I know the women on those infomercials with the diamond rings must be just rolling in the dough."

"I've never been a fan of diamonds," he says, and sips his coffee. "They're so... colorless, you know? Fine for scientific and industrial purposes, but for jewelry, I prefer color."

"What about emeralds?" she asks. "My birthday stone."

"I love them," he says. "They work beautifully with any metal. Are they your favorite?"

"Of all the colored metals," she nods.

"I'll have to make you something sometime, then. Do you have a preference, or would you rather be surprised?"

"I like surprises," she says with a smile.

"I'm sure I'll be able to come up with something, then," he says. "But if I do... promise me you'll wear it out somewhere with me? It'll be tasteful, I promise."