Stitching with buttons & cookies (**)

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Emily nodded her head approvingly, put the work basket aside, and went after the hand embroidered tray they left earlier in the kitchen. She poured each grey tea, stirred in honey and added milk. Then, she grabbed one of the rich chocolate cookies and fed it to her friend, while sitting herself on her lap.

“And still, Marie, there are few that carry wounds from their anteriority, if you delve further. Social position, ethnic origin, background, intelligence level, gender, hormonal imbalance and so on…all those inheritable and moulding traits, isn’t that a sundry hotchpotch of lesions we all un~ and~willingly carry?”, she pensively asserted, then immediately regretted saying it out loud. She thought of the possible catastrophic reaction it might trigger in Marie.

“But that wouldn’t be curable, would it? I mean, you can’t stitch the pathos which flows into your blood, the destiny mapped into your facial features, the intimate history screamed in your mother tongue, can you?”, Marie calmly replied, while caressing Emily’s ivory cheeks just as she used to when they were so tiny they could fit into the toy treehouse, striving as then to unleash a bit of rosy nuance in.

Emily kissed her wavy auburn hair from which she just hours ago plucked few silvery while persuading Marie to stop dyeing it in that dreadfully aggressive crimson. She breathed in her exotic perfume, and then traced the fine lines of indigo veins down her supple arms. Emily’s fingers stopped just above the wrists, vulnerable circumferences protected now by ribbon-like bracelets. She abruptly stood up and swiftly strolled away. Stopped in front of the grand window which opened into a luxuriant orchard. Her hands rested onto the sun rays lit sill, and she pressed her neatly trimmed nails into it while speaking,

“I guess not…but not because it wouldn’t be healing. But because those cuts are gashed too vast as to be sorted out without additional infliction. Yet, in those cases, one could do something else, Marie”.

“What would be that then, heartmate?”, Marie retorted, fake joy mingled with sarcasm effusing her elegant voice. Her long ago self-titled <heart-mate>, as to distinguish me from the man that would one day reclaim the <soul-mate> one in your life, she said then, and Emily hugged her and promised to use it back and they made that ludicrous pact which now seemed as surreal as this casual conversation amidst everything that had happened since.

“Use buttons. Pretend the cuts, which are there for reasons of indelible appurtenances,  are actually meant to be fitted with buttons, not smoothed in fixing or fastening. Which is what it is, I guess…in some ways”, Emily suggested. She struggled to contain herself, to not allow that sweet appellative they once claimed on a daily basis remind her what followed when he appeared into their entwined life. The string of trophy lovers, the inevitable jealousy, the tragic quarrel by the bonfire, the sudden disappearance, the subsequent alienation and the current situation, the…Stop, please stop, not the right moment yet, not yet.

Marie could swear she detected a twinge of despair in Emily’s voice, as if the freshly emerged insight should be assumed by herself too. Buttons made of what?, she wanted to ask. Instead, she shook her head, jumped up and filled her powdered palms with buttons from Emily’s basket. Then grinning, she shouted in a girlish tone, as long ago when they both did it to cast away shadows of preoccupations, “Hooray!” as she threw her hands up.

Emily giggled too and ritualistically proceeded to clean up Marie’s mess from the floor, while pointing her hand towards the table, “He is on in 10 minutes, put that radio on. Let’s dance away this non~ and sensical stuff of pitiful humanity for now, shall we?”

“Oh, darling, I couldn’t agree more! What does sense mean anyway? Nothing more exciting than a best buddies’ self-denial dancing!”, Marie completed while smiling back, a bit of malice in her voice, just after she obediently pressed the “on” button.

 

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