Fog and Faces

I walked Kate home in the fog, conversation with her soothing my soul. The evening had passed with cookies, tonic wine, and bullshit (though I only partook of the latter of those three). Caoimhe’s siblings were in town for a visit, and the craic was good tonight. I attempted to get the exclusive rights to Cormick’s (I hope I have that spelled correctly, but have no illusions that I do) biography, but he signed the post-it note contract with his stage name, so I doubt it’s legally binding. Caoimhe and her sister have the same beautiful dark hair and the same beautiful alabaster skin. Ashleyne (again, forgive my spelling) has a coy, flirtatious manner, a come-hither cock of her head, a smile with half-lidded eyes. I imagine watching her and Caoimhe together is much like watching my sister and I together–similar expressions on similar faces, each sister adding a unique twist, some personal flair. Ashleyne was wearing clothing borrowed from Caoimhe’s closet in Ireland. Her top had a trim on it that was reminiscent to me of gingerbread houses–it had large, nearly luminescent yellow beads that reminded me of lemon drops, interspersed with sprinkly-type things. I am sure that many people would agree, she looked good enough to eat. For that matter, so did her sister, and Alicia, and Kate, in spite of the poor thing’s massive hangover. I’m not sure how I ended up surrounded by such amazingly beautiful, talented women, but I am fortunate indeed.

I sometimes envy sisters who share clothing. Kate routinely raids Hazel’s wardrobe, though she is careful to attribute the items of clothing to her sister if you pay her a compliment on a borrowed garment–Credit where credit is due. Caoimhe and Ashleyne share clothing, as well. My sister and I have tastes too divergent for swapping (okay, taste and ass sizes, but who is counting?). On the other hand, Caoimhe and Ashleyne sharing clothing may turn out to be convenient for Alicia and I–Alicia is trying to pare down her wardrobe, so we are hoping to send Ashleyne home to Ireland in Alicia’s clothing, leaving the borrowed clothes of Caoimhe’s with Caoimhe.

The fog transformed the gardens on Blackness Avenue into fairy wonderlands. I came across a flower I had never seen before, something like a dianthus, a deep rich red with velvet petals. The center of the flowers held drops of water, sparkling in the orange glow from the street lamps. A crinkly, fluffy ranunculus, like a fancy lady’s ball gown undergarments, dripped moisture onto the soft green grass.

It was walking home in the fog and the nighttime that I remembered that this was one of the things that I had loved best about Berlin. I loved my slow strolls through the quiet, dark city, in the damp and beautiful. If nothing else, I will have that to look forward to, in my upcoming trip.

The pubbers have returned home now–I can hear Caoimhe’s laugh ringing up the back of the house. Now they are laughing and talking in the living room, no doubt rehashing and filling people in on any craic that anyone missed. Cormick was only in Dundee for four hours before he found a place to DJ–an impressive feat, except that he’s Irish and a McMahon, and that is how they roll. They’re like magic. If I could bottle and sell McMahon Mojo I would be a millionaire.

I am a fortunate girl, indeed.

Fog and Faces

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