The Whole Foods grew its own malignant tumor of a parking lot, creating a concrete jungle and a heat trap that slowly crept up to the first line of houses. Where the sidewalk and the family-size doors bled together an almost solid wall of gently undulating air demarcated climate control from climate change. A little Cedar in oolong hoodie and exhausted denim jeans phased through the wall with a typically slow, watchful gait, distracted for a moment by the flood of industrial strength blinding lights above while still knowing her way.
She lingered by the tub of clinging-to-in-season watermelons deep enough to host a pool party in. Studying them intently, a creative glimmer of daydreaming in her eye that suddenly dissolved like fairy floss meeting lips.
"Wait. Fuck." Mumbled loudly to herself, with an embarrassed glance around as she realized she'd been so loud, as her hands crunched the front pocket of her hoodie into origami shapes and she clawed with defeated franticness for something she apparently couldn't find.
what do you mean you're at soup?
Thread made just for the title gonna be honest. Open!
what do you mean you're at soup?
She looked through the pasta isle. Blissfully, her mind was empty, thoughts about maybe creation and maybe art, nodding her head to the song blasted through her earphones loud enough to almost forget she was in the presence of other people.
The box compelled her to knock.
She did. One time, two times, against the thin plastic front that let all the pasta rattle against each other.
She did it again.
And again.
And again.
That's enough, now. God, Erika, you look like a freak.
The box compelled her to knock.
She did. One time, two times, against the thin plastic front that let all the pasta rattle against each other.
She did it again.
And again.
And again.
That's enough, now. God, Erika, you look like a freak.
Blood Tongue Nails Teeth
Cedar began to ramble with her feet tracing Nazca and her lips sealed, eyes looking over pretentiously handcrafted product displays without actually seeing the contents being advertised. She was looking for a solution to a problem by way of looking for something that didn't remind her of her problem, which was yeah. totally productive of her, and all. She walked past the frozen BBQ chicken pizzas she liked the smell of when mom popped one in the oven that she only ever got to taste by the pinkie-ful.
(( Cedar Dalisay's Friends, Thread 2 ))
She found her dosage of calm, reaching the mouth of the aisle occupied solely by a person broadcasting music louder than she ever was in reality.
Don't look too much into the implications of a relationship built almost entirely of conversations typed by fingers. They're healthy. They're natural. At least if avoiding the knee-jerk reactions of one's inner boomer. Erika was the girl that reflected the reality that you hate people who hurt a friend on their behalf more than they themselves actually hate that person, or you know, maybe that was just a particularly presumptive insight that was fake. Filling in the blanks where the other person was just naturally quiet, as opposed to actively trying to cultivate silence. No one cared about the faulty jumping to conclusions. Is what Erika probably would have said with a more interesting way of phrasing it. The two of them probably needed to speak by way of actually talking about their respective problems but neither of them were too inclined to do such a thing. Maybe there was some kind of indirect dialogue going on. Maybe they'd show each other the art they actually did in their own free time, and not the pharmacy generics they uploaded to their social media accounts.
Honestly thinking about someone else too much had a certain relativistic gravity to it, warping the moment into the shape of a style that looked more like them and not like herself.
Whatever that meant.
Yeah, she didn't know what that meant. She didn't even remember who'd linked her that post-modern drip.
She needed to stop thinking about it. Erika probably would have preferred that if she could hear the inner spiel.
Cedar waved and waited and waved a bit more if need be. The distance between them didn't need to shrink- there could be a step or two closer to the small business-brand organic pastas that all likely still travelled way too fast through Cedar's guts, sure. Cedar wanted Amerika to know she was at rights to walk the other way if she so chose. Though, the thing with the pasta looked kind of fun.
(( Cedar Dalisay's Friends, Thread 2 ))
She found her dosage of calm, reaching the mouth of the aisle occupied solely by a person broadcasting music louder than she ever was in reality.
Don't look too much into the implications of a relationship built almost entirely of conversations typed by fingers. They're healthy. They're natural. At least if avoiding the knee-jerk reactions of one's inner boomer. Erika was the girl that reflected the reality that you hate people who hurt a friend on their behalf more than they themselves actually hate that person, or you know, maybe that was just a particularly presumptive insight that was fake. Filling in the blanks where the other person was just naturally quiet, as opposed to actively trying to cultivate silence. No one cared about the faulty jumping to conclusions. Is what Erika probably would have said with a more interesting way of phrasing it. The two of them probably needed to speak by way of actually talking about their respective problems but neither of them were too inclined to do such a thing. Maybe there was some kind of indirect dialogue going on. Maybe they'd show each other the art they actually did in their own free time, and not the pharmacy generics they uploaded to their social media accounts.
Honestly thinking about someone else too much had a certain relativistic gravity to it, warping the moment into the shape of a style that looked more like them and not like herself.
Whatever that meant.
Yeah, she didn't know what that meant. She didn't even remember who'd linked her that post-modern drip.
She needed to stop thinking about it. Erika probably would have preferred that if she could hear the inner spiel.
Cedar waved and waited and waved a bit more if need be. The distance between them didn't need to shrink- there could be a step or two closer to the small business-brand organic pastas that all likely still travelled way too fast through Cedar's guts, sure. Cedar wanted Amerika to know she was at rights to walk the other way if she so chose. Though, the thing with the pasta looked kind of fun.
Please don’t make me talk, she begged.
If you make me talk, I’ll have to fish out things to talk about. And then my brain gets flooded again, with things I want to create but I never will. I’m so tired. Just let me be empty.
“...”
She knocked the pasta again. Penne, this time, not ravioli- the smooth kind, where the sauce just slips right off. She refused to touch this stuff in elementary school.
“Hey,” she smiled, taking her headphones off, stopping the music from the home page.
Erika never really knew how to continue a conversation, beyond pointing out something obvious or throwing a compliment, and then letting the other person take the wheel. It’s kind of surface-level, but conversation is conversation, and it’ll be rude of her not to respond.
So she looked. Searched, trying to grasp what Cedar was made of, what she was all about- she had more engagement online than Erika, probably. Liked by people who had that specific kind of clout that’s based almost entirely in attaching themselves to the audience of a larger creator. It made her kind of jealous, because it felt like Erika spent quite a while chasing likes online before she had a lick of presence, and now she had to keep it up, and that exhausted her to her very bones. She didn’t want to feel jealous. She wanted to congratulate, to like Cedar, and she did, she really did, but still.
Ugh, god, she told herself to leave her mind empty and now all these thoughts were just pouring in- and she had to interrupt her pasta-touching to take her headphones off, so she had to do it again.
Erika grabbed another box of pasta. Spaghetti. Whole wheat angel’s hair.
And she shook it, twice and then thrice, in a motion that seemed like a mockery of how her mother liked to shake things in supermarkets- she's always had a sense for food quality that Erika never knew. Maybe Cedar knew it, too? It was kind of an Asian thing, as weird as it was for her to say that, because Mom's entire family did that to orange juice and tin cans.
“I like your hoodie,” she decided. Inoffensive.
The worst part was that it was all happening when she listened to Vocaloid. And Cedar seemed like the type to like Vocaloid, but Erika knew next to nothing, so if she decided to comment on the music she’d have to either embarrass herself or pretend that she knew a lot more about Hatsune Miku than she did.
If you make me talk, I’ll have to fish out things to talk about. And then my brain gets flooded again, with things I want to create but I never will. I’m so tired. Just let me be empty.
“...”
She knocked the pasta again. Penne, this time, not ravioli- the smooth kind, where the sauce just slips right off. She refused to touch this stuff in elementary school.
“Hey,” she smiled, taking her headphones off, stopping the music from the home page.
Erika never really knew how to continue a conversation, beyond pointing out something obvious or throwing a compliment, and then letting the other person take the wheel. It’s kind of surface-level, but conversation is conversation, and it’ll be rude of her not to respond.
So she looked. Searched, trying to grasp what Cedar was made of, what she was all about- she had more engagement online than Erika, probably. Liked by people who had that specific kind of clout that’s based almost entirely in attaching themselves to the audience of a larger creator. It made her kind of jealous, because it felt like Erika spent quite a while chasing likes online before she had a lick of presence, and now she had to keep it up, and that exhausted her to her very bones. She didn’t want to feel jealous. She wanted to congratulate, to like Cedar, and she did, she really did, but still.
Ugh, god, she told herself to leave her mind empty and now all these thoughts were just pouring in- and she had to interrupt her pasta-touching to take her headphones off, so she had to do it again.
Erika grabbed another box of pasta. Spaghetti. Whole wheat angel’s hair.
And she shook it, twice and then thrice, in a motion that seemed like a mockery of how her mother liked to shake things in supermarkets- she's always had a sense for food quality that Erika never knew. Maybe Cedar knew it, too? It was kind of an Asian thing, as weird as it was for her to say that, because Mom's entire family did that to orange juice and tin cans.
“I like your hoodie,” she decided. Inoffensive.
The worst part was that it was all happening when she listened to Vocaloid. And Cedar seemed like the type to like Vocaloid, but Erika knew next to nothing, so if she decided to comment on the music she’d have to either embarrass herself or pretend that she knew a lot more about Hatsune Miku than she did.
Blood Tongue Nails Teeth
Solidarity was a spectrum of too much and not enough, Cedar had learned at the little age of... actually, she didn't really know when exactly she'd developed that insight.
On some level Cedar felt self-conscious in a very out-of-character and out-of-body way. Like whoops, all of a sudden you've become the sort of person who thinks too much about thinking too much and you're remembering remembering cringe- secondhand of the secondhand, inhaling the cigarette carcinogens exhaled by the first person who inhaled them from the smoking section of the diner that. Maybe. Still existed in the present day and age or maybe it was just a false memory like Berenst(e)(a)in Bears. Whoops, congratulations Cedar you've become another sauce of fake news. She'd always in hindsight known social media was a bad idea but unfortunately she made money through it (don't say that out loud around other artists ever, by the way). In hindsight meaning after she was regretting the 2 AM Tumblr rants binge that theoretically made her lose faith in humanity (not in actuality, she liked people just a bit too much to actually be disappointed in them? In so far as she was mature enough to understand her own motivations- ha ha emphasis on the ha).
Cedar contemplatively grasped a box of rigatoni shells and rattled it, a bit slow because, uh, box heavy. Erika was a tol girl so eye contact between their differing shades of brown required Cedar to feel the days old tension in her neck, courtesy of late night studying posture.
"Thanks, you're too kind!" Cedar's tone was one she consciously remembered was typically annoying if she didn't turn the volume knob down to almost mute. "It's a Superdry, twenty-uh... thirteen? Impressive how much I haven't grown in that many years."
Cedar had an inkling that this conversation wouldn't be exactly organic. A contest of how fast Cedar would be able to shove fertilizer out the speaking-enabled end of her digestive system. Erika was a good person in the manner that she'd probably actually die if she had to say a word on her own behalf. Cedar distinctly remembered- somehow? senioritis brain rot aside- that Erika hadn't bothered to delete a gross comment about her being Japanese that had showed up on her blog once, and, fair or not, Cedar had nursed certain hopefully non-malignant assumptions about Erika ever since. Much as they didn't talk longform except to contemplate architecture (which one of them was the two that unironically liked brutalism instead of it having just become a derpy punchline? Hard to tell!), it was apparently important to have pretty damn intimate opinions on other casual acquaintances.
"We're gonna be cooking more of this stuff more often I guess, when we move out. If we can afford it, anyways."
She flipped the package over and had the attention span to both read the ingredients and keep hurling words Erika's way with the requisite amount of eye contact that wasn't overdone to creepiness. Sore subject for Cedar to pick out, to be honest. College was... a thing. Also pasta was probably not going to be on Cedar's menu at college store ingredient quality.
"Like, I'm envisioning the overflowing pot of budget cooking for a week. Kind of exciting, kind of ominous. Gonna have to get really creative with the ratios of soy sauce to siracha before the taste buds burn out."
Again, unlikely cabinet staples for her unless she was willing to burn her allowance on ten different qualifiers of gluten-free, but normal people ate normal food so it was fair game to talk about.
And yes, she'd noticed the song! She loved this one in particular, but again, no need to throw the ball into Erika's court until Cedar got the sense that there was an open... receiver... sports metaphor.
On some level Cedar felt self-conscious in a very out-of-character and out-of-body way. Like whoops, all of a sudden you've become the sort of person who thinks too much about thinking too much and you're remembering remembering cringe- secondhand of the secondhand, inhaling the cigarette carcinogens exhaled by the first person who inhaled them from the smoking section of the diner that. Maybe. Still existed in the present day and age or maybe it was just a false memory like Berenst(e)(a)in Bears. Whoops, congratulations Cedar you've become another sauce of fake news. She'd always in hindsight known social media was a bad idea but unfortunately she made money through it (don't say that out loud around other artists ever, by the way). In hindsight meaning after she was regretting the 2 AM Tumblr rants binge that theoretically made her lose faith in humanity (not in actuality, she liked people just a bit too much to actually be disappointed in them? In so far as she was mature enough to understand her own motivations- ha ha emphasis on the ha).
Cedar contemplatively grasped a box of rigatoni shells and rattled it, a bit slow because, uh, box heavy. Erika was a tol girl so eye contact between their differing shades of brown required Cedar to feel the days old tension in her neck, courtesy of late night studying posture.
"Thanks, you're too kind!" Cedar's tone was one she consciously remembered was typically annoying if she didn't turn the volume knob down to almost mute. "It's a Superdry, twenty-uh... thirteen? Impressive how much I haven't grown in that many years."
Cedar had an inkling that this conversation wouldn't be exactly organic. A contest of how fast Cedar would be able to shove fertilizer out the speaking-enabled end of her digestive system. Erika was a good person in the manner that she'd probably actually die if she had to say a word on her own behalf. Cedar distinctly remembered- somehow? senioritis brain rot aside- that Erika hadn't bothered to delete a gross comment about her being Japanese that had showed up on her blog once, and, fair or not, Cedar had nursed certain hopefully non-malignant assumptions about Erika ever since. Much as they didn't talk longform except to contemplate architecture (which one of them was the two that unironically liked brutalism instead of it having just become a derpy punchline? Hard to tell!), it was apparently important to have pretty damn intimate opinions on other casual acquaintances.
"We're gonna be cooking more of this stuff more often I guess, when we move out. If we can afford it, anyways."
She flipped the package over and had the attention span to both read the ingredients and keep hurling words Erika's way with the requisite amount of eye contact that wasn't overdone to creepiness. Sore subject for Cedar to pick out, to be honest. College was... a thing. Also pasta was probably not going to be on Cedar's menu at college store ingredient quality.
"Like, I'm envisioning the overflowing pot of budget cooking for a week. Kind of exciting, kind of ominous. Gonna have to get really creative with the ratios of soy sauce to siracha before the taste buds burn out."
Again, unlikely cabinet staples for her unless she was willing to burn her allowance on ten different qualifiers of gluten-free, but normal people ate normal food so it was fair game to talk about.
And yes, she'd noticed the song! She loved this one in particular, but again, no need to throw the ball into Erika's court until Cedar got the sense that there was an open... receiver... sports metaphor.
"Oh, uh, thanks! I, like, wish I could say the same about not growing, honestly. Replacing your pants every year, every growth spurt really quickly goes from "Oh wow I get new clothes" to "What do you mean I have to go and buy them again, you know? I'd like to wear a cool hoodie like this for eight years straight."
Not that Cedar would actually know, probably. Erika was in that precarious position where she had no close relatives smaller than her to hand them down, and she herself was not fashion conscious to actually want to buy anything new if her closet was already full- it made her feel guilty, sort of, for growing taller like any regular teenager with normal amounts of growth hormone and whatnot in her body, as if her body was a machine that was too expensive to upkeep, requiring the change of parts every dozen months or so. At least it gave her the excuse to wear the baggy clothes that she enjoyed, to design her own said baggy clothes. Before she figured that out, it was the reason why accessories were her self-expression tool instead of expensive gucci boots or whatever. Though to be quite honest she had respect for the three people who had the bravery to ask her to make a shirt from this.
The plus was that at least throwing all these shirts and pants into donation bins had made her feel like at least she was contributing something to society with the money that Dad got radicalizing republican teens.
Her first rule of conversation is to deflect and hopefully reflect any compliment thrown in her way, and it occurred to her that this game of back-and-fourth may continue until the end of time given their natures.
"Honestly, my plan for college is probably to survive on a diet of bread and instant ramen until I crack."
Grandma from which side, she left vague. It was pretty obvious if one has appropriate context. She picked up a box of organic gluten-free brown rice lasagna, frowned at it, maintained a second of eye contact, and then put it back. Taking care of her own body was not her strong point- grandpa had said that she'll hit twenty and immediately get scoliosis. Erika was the kind of child who had to be coaxed into eating her veggies if they weren't the five select ones that she was willing to eat, and apparently corn and potatoes didn't count as being vegetables, for some reason.
"It just doesn't feel real, doesn't it? I've been cooking and shopping for myself for a while, but never on a budget. Can't wait to crack and blow five dollars on bubble tea or some kind of expensive oil paint and then, whoops- no dinner for a week."
In all honesty, she was pretty sure she could speed-dial at least four relatives and they'll all paypal her a hundred dollars if she give the littlest hint that she was struggling. It was the benefit of being both an only child and having decently well off parents that, in one way or another, feel guilty enough about not being around enough that she'll get what she wanted if she asked. Dad had upped her allowance when work got busy for him, after all.
Not like she'll ask, but still. As far as she knew Cedar wasn't the sort of kid who had the privilege of having a gaggle of overprotective adults at her sort-of beck and call. But that's the way conversation works- sympathize, sweet talk, and move on was what dad had described it as. As much as she disliked it she'd used this method for a decent amount of her life, and it works. Mostly.
A box of fettucine went inside her cart as she smiled at Cedar.
"It's so odd that I'll live alone, soon, right?"
Not that Cedar would actually know, probably. Erika was in that precarious position where she had no close relatives smaller than her to hand them down, and she herself was not fashion conscious to actually want to buy anything new if her closet was already full- it made her feel guilty, sort of, for growing taller like any regular teenager with normal amounts of growth hormone and whatnot in her body, as if her body was a machine that was too expensive to upkeep, requiring the change of parts every dozen months or so. At least it gave her the excuse to wear the baggy clothes that she enjoyed, to design her own said baggy clothes. Before she figured that out, it was the reason why accessories were her self-expression tool instead of expensive gucci boots or whatever. Though to be quite honest she had respect for the three people who had the bravery to ask her to make a shirt from this.
The plus was that at least throwing all these shirts and pants into donation bins had made her feel like at least she was contributing something to society with the money that Dad got radicalizing republican teens.
Her first rule of conversation is to deflect and hopefully reflect any compliment thrown in her way, and it occurred to her that this game of back-and-fourth may continue until the end of time given their natures.
"Honestly, my plan for college is probably to survive on a diet of bread and instant ramen until I crack."
Grandma from which side, she left vague. It was pretty obvious if one has appropriate context. She picked up a box of organic gluten-free brown rice lasagna, frowned at it, maintained a second of eye contact, and then put it back. Taking care of her own body was not her strong point- grandpa had said that she'll hit twenty and immediately get scoliosis. Erika was the kind of child who had to be coaxed into eating her veggies if they weren't the five select ones that she was willing to eat, and apparently corn and potatoes didn't count as being vegetables, for some reason.
"It just doesn't feel real, doesn't it? I've been cooking and shopping for myself for a while, but never on a budget. Can't wait to crack and blow five dollars on bubble tea or some kind of expensive oil paint and then, whoops- no dinner for a week."
In all honesty, she was pretty sure she could speed-dial at least four relatives and they'll all paypal her a hundred dollars if she give the littlest hint that she was struggling. It was the benefit of being both an only child and having decently well off parents that, in one way or another, feel guilty enough about not being around enough that she'll get what she wanted if she asked. Dad had upped her allowance when work got busy for him, after all.
Not like she'll ask, but still. As far as she knew Cedar wasn't the sort of kid who had the privilege of having a gaggle of overprotective adults at her sort-of beck and call. But that's the way conversation works- sympathize, sweet talk, and move on was what dad had described it as. As much as she disliked it she'd used this method for a decent amount of her life, and it works. Mostly.
A box of fettucine went inside her cart as she smiled at Cedar.
"It's so odd that I'll live alone, soon, right?"
Blood Tongue Nails Teeth
"I wish I could say I felt you there," Cedar mewled, nodded softly as her brain could definitely picture the struggle but without really knowing the sensations involved of... what it might have been, stretch marks, too many receipts, decision paralysis in the store and the store next door to that. "Getting to save money is definitely a positive. I guess with any luck you're closing in on the tail end of your puberty?"
Rhetorical question, hopefully. A question mark that didn't audibly sound like a question mark.
Cedar wasn't really thinking about herself at the moment, probably, but there she was, the shape of Erika's reflection that was lingering in the human adolescent-shape mirror opposite. Not necessarily a prescriptive shape. What you see in a mirror probably looks more like reality than is actually realistic, or something like that? One shape flapped its lips and then the other shape followed suit but the timing wasn't right? The quality of a sound changes when it reflects off a surface like glass. Like flesh too, incidentally.
But fuck, Cedar was being too self-consciously stuck in her own head because that seemed somehow appropriate in this particular situation. It wasn't a common set of synapses her brain was operating, and it was, uh. Unique, though not necessarily in either the positive or negative sense of the word.
She guessed she was content that Erika was shaping the conversation with her own two hands, the ones also operating boxes and bags of pastas, the final stage in a long and capitalistic supply chain. It didn't feel like it was going smoothly, but Cedar was used to that, she just particularly wasn't used to being worried about it in such a particularly out-of-body feeling way.
"I totally would burn all my money on art supplies too. We're both too stand out to shoplift that kind of thing, I think. One too small one too large, we're too blatant on store cameras." Cedar mimed being a sneak pilferer as an addendum, surprisingly good at not making a sound when there was no weight to trade with gravity. "It's odd for sure. But I don't know if it's... scary odd, intriguing odd, entertaining odd. I don't know what variants I'm missing out on."
Cedar began to hint that they might walk along. She knew where she needed to go, though that wasn't necessarily where they needed to be yet or at all.
"I dunno how you feel about it, but personally I'm on the fence about feeling guilty about asking for extra from home. What does it say if I do or don't- am I not calling home enough, calling home too much." A sour smile. "Well maybe calling home brings up complications sometimes though. I get that."
Rhetorical question, hopefully. A question mark that didn't audibly sound like a question mark.
Cedar wasn't really thinking about herself at the moment, probably, but there she was, the shape of Erika's reflection that was lingering in the human adolescent-shape mirror opposite. Not necessarily a prescriptive shape. What you see in a mirror probably looks more like reality than is actually realistic, or something like that? One shape flapped its lips and then the other shape followed suit but the timing wasn't right? The quality of a sound changes when it reflects off a surface like glass. Like flesh too, incidentally.
But fuck, Cedar was being too self-consciously stuck in her own head because that seemed somehow appropriate in this particular situation. It wasn't a common set of synapses her brain was operating, and it was, uh. Unique, though not necessarily in either the positive or negative sense of the word.
She guessed she was content that Erika was shaping the conversation with her own two hands, the ones also operating boxes and bags of pastas, the final stage in a long and capitalistic supply chain. It didn't feel like it was going smoothly, but Cedar was used to that, she just particularly wasn't used to being worried about it in such a particularly out-of-body feeling way.
"I totally would burn all my money on art supplies too. We're both too stand out to shoplift that kind of thing, I think. One too small one too large, we're too blatant on store cameras." Cedar mimed being a sneak pilferer as an addendum, surprisingly good at not making a sound when there was no weight to trade with gravity. "It's odd for sure. But I don't know if it's... scary odd, intriguing odd, entertaining odd. I don't know what variants I'm missing out on."
Cedar began to hint that they might walk along. She knew where she needed to go, though that wasn't necessarily where they needed to be yet or at all.
"I dunno how you feel about it, but personally I'm on the fence about feeling guilty about asking for extra from home. What does it say if I do or don't- am I not calling home enough, calling home too much." A sour smile. "Well maybe calling home brings up complications sometimes though. I get that."
"Better be. I'm already too tall."
And too wide at the shoulders, too lanky in the limbs. They sprawl and dangle and their touches lingers for too long, really.
"I'll take scary odd- so I guess I'll just swallow that fear. I mean, dad kinda gets his cash from radicalizing young impressionable teens, so... makes me sleep easier at night when I think about it like that."
You know how every thought feels more real when you speak it out like that?
Yeah, Erika knew about that. But she still spoke, didn't she? Still opened her big stupid mouth? There's only so much she could keep in, so long of a time she could go without expressing her discontent with her home life. It made her feel so spoiled and stupid, to take and then take some more and then complain. But who was Cedar to judge, if she judges at all? Had the hand that fed her hit her too?
"I mean, there's a fifty percent chance I'll be driving home instead of calling- neither of the parents wanted me to go far away. Don't know if that's better or worse?"
She walked, a bit mindful of her long strides and Cedar's shorter ones. Her eyes scanned the sauce section, and then the soups. Campbell's, a row of nothing but chicken noodle and tomato and cream of mushroom. It sort of vaguely reminded her of that canned soup artwork, except the thing was such an easy reference to make that she refused to dwell on it.
Pisupo Lua Afe?
No. Shut up.
And too wide at the shoulders, too lanky in the limbs. They sprawl and dangle and their touches lingers for too long, really.
"I'll take scary odd- so I guess I'll just swallow that fear. I mean, dad kinda gets his cash from radicalizing young impressionable teens, so... makes me sleep easier at night when I think about it like that."
You know how every thought feels more real when you speak it out like that?
Yeah, Erika knew about that. But she still spoke, didn't she? Still opened her big stupid mouth? There's only so much she could keep in, so long of a time she could go without expressing her discontent with her home life. It made her feel so spoiled and stupid, to take and then take some more and then complain. But who was Cedar to judge, if she judges at all? Had the hand that fed her hit her too?
"I mean, there's a fifty percent chance I'll be driving home instead of calling- neither of the parents wanted me to go far away. Don't know if that's better or worse?"
She walked, a bit mindful of her long strides and Cedar's shorter ones. Her eyes scanned the sauce section, and then the soups. Campbell's, a row of nothing but chicken noodle and tomato and cream of mushroom. It sort of vaguely reminded her of that canned soup artwork, except the thing was such an easy reference to make that she refused to dwell on it.
Pisupo Lua Afe?
No. Shut up.
Blood Tongue Nails Teeth
Cedar nodded softly, ignoring her own body and trying to imagine what it was like with a lifetime of different adjectives. She couldn't objectively understand but she could empathize. People looking at you and seeing a shape that was probably grosser and more formless in your own head, a vague blob that you understood with stereotypes and details you fleshed out way too much. There, that was something Cedar definitely knew some things about, even if the details differed between the two privy parties.
"Odds not being in our favor, maybe. Oh, but actually. To be honest. I'd fully endorse minimizing your dad's reserves. Let me know if I can indirectly pitch in- I'm sure I've had some stupid midnight business idea you could ironically invest in!"
Cedar felt a little more buoyant at that, enough that she could float on the excess if she were any less heavy a human being. The easiest form of judgement to partake in was one teed up by another. It felt awkward, being the one not having to reach for something to say for once. A burden shared meant the weight on her shoulders no longer pinned her two feet to the ground. Still, she was shuffling along to one side of Erika, suddenly wondering where the cheese aisle was because she had a craving she was not allowed to indulge on penalty of metaphorical death. She was counting the amount of steps each of them took without making it obvious that she was looking.
She wondered if Erika was as conscious of the differences in their gaits. She could maybe read into it, feel some unseen force that her sixth sense insisted was the direction of Erika's gaze pointed downward. But, hm. People were a narrative that demanded interpretation, but more specifically one where the author was not allowed to be dead.
"I do want to stay close so my opinion would be biased. My thoughts on it are that its practical but not adventurous. Fun without the danger or the potential for self-actualization. Oop, that's a word I haven't used since AP Lang with Mrs. Ruby last year." A hiccup, which felt nice to break the flow of her thoughts despite also hurting. "You could call it a cop out if you wanted to and I'd agree. You also couldn't and I'd still agree, unfortunately." She giggled and it felt natural, anyways. "TL;DR; well, I tried to have an actual opinion I guess?" Another one of those cutsey not-really question marks.
"Odds not being in our favor, maybe. Oh, but actually. To be honest. I'd fully endorse minimizing your dad's reserves. Let me know if I can indirectly pitch in- I'm sure I've had some stupid midnight business idea you could ironically invest in!"
Cedar felt a little more buoyant at that, enough that she could float on the excess if she were any less heavy a human being. The easiest form of judgement to partake in was one teed up by another. It felt awkward, being the one not having to reach for something to say for once. A burden shared meant the weight on her shoulders no longer pinned her two feet to the ground. Still, she was shuffling along to one side of Erika, suddenly wondering where the cheese aisle was because she had a craving she was not allowed to indulge on penalty of metaphorical death. She was counting the amount of steps each of them took without making it obvious that she was looking.
She wondered if Erika was as conscious of the differences in their gaits. She could maybe read into it, feel some unseen force that her sixth sense insisted was the direction of Erika's gaze pointed downward. But, hm. People were a narrative that demanded interpretation, but more specifically one where the author was not allowed to be dead.
"I do want to stay close so my opinion would be biased. My thoughts on it are that its practical but not adventurous. Fun without the danger or the potential for self-actualization. Oop, that's a word I haven't used since AP Lang with Mrs. Ruby last year." A hiccup, which felt nice to break the flow of her thoughts despite also hurting. "You could call it a cop out if you wanted to and I'd agree. You also couldn't and I'd still agree, unfortunately." She giggled and it felt natural, anyways. "TL;DR; well, I tried to have an actual opinion I guess?" Another one of those cutsey not-really question marks.
“I’d love to hear it.”
And she was honest this time! Redbubble, posters, shirts, mugs, whatever…
“Bias is kind of inherent in everyone, right? I mean… so are opinions. But, like, I do get where you’re coming from, and I do agree, like, somewhat, or at least agree as much as I could, anyways, given my history of being kind of… myself. Yeah. I do get the appeal of using my parents’ privilege and “hard-earned” money as a kind of cushion to land back on if I ever mess up. Even though it kind of makes me feel a bit like I’m burdening them- they already have their parents to take care of.”
Her hands waved in the general area around her face, trying to convey with body language what her words couldn’t. Except Erika was even worse at body language, so she probably looked kind of stupid trying to gesture her hands around? And also she was very aware of the fact that her right foot was on the crack between two tiles and her left foot wasn’t. It was kind of a dumb thing to be aware of, and it took a lot of her attention away from the conversation, because she was trying to decide if she should move her feet so they’d both step on a crack, or move her feet so that neither would be stepping on…
Yeah.
To be honest, Erika didn’t really know what Cedar was saying? It’s, like, when you skim through a book and you can recognize the individual words and a general idea, but the details slip through the cracks and when you have to write an essay on a passage you’ll know for sure you’re going to mess up. And she was sort of trying to fill the blanks by talking about herself, about what she does know, instead of trying to really advance the conversation because to be quite honest she was sort of confused right now, and she couldn’t find that particular Italian Wedding soup that came in dinky little cans.
What did self-actualization even mean? Erika wishes she was half as eloquent as Cedar was. Or just… be like her own notions of what Cedar was, viewed from a biased incomplete perspective anyways.
It’s stupid wanting to be someone else.
Maybe if she were a little different from who she actually was, Erika would’ve told Cedar that her brand of self-depreciation is at best unfunny and at most unhealthy, but that would mean that a. She’ll be indirectly criticizing herself, and b. She’ll come off as being an overbearing kind of friend who fusses over everything, even little jokes.
And she was honest this time! Redbubble, posters, shirts, mugs, whatever…
“Bias is kind of inherent in everyone, right? I mean… so are opinions. But, like, I do get where you’re coming from, and I do agree, like, somewhat, or at least agree as much as I could, anyways, given my history of being kind of… myself. Yeah. I do get the appeal of using my parents’ privilege and “hard-earned” money as a kind of cushion to land back on if I ever mess up. Even though it kind of makes me feel a bit like I’m burdening them- they already have their parents to take care of.”
Her hands waved in the general area around her face, trying to convey with body language what her words couldn’t. Except Erika was even worse at body language, so she probably looked kind of stupid trying to gesture her hands around? And also she was very aware of the fact that her right foot was on the crack between two tiles and her left foot wasn’t. It was kind of a dumb thing to be aware of, and it took a lot of her attention away from the conversation, because she was trying to decide if she should move her feet so they’d both step on a crack, or move her feet so that neither would be stepping on…
Yeah.
To be honest, Erika didn’t really know what Cedar was saying? It’s, like, when you skim through a book and you can recognize the individual words and a general idea, but the details slip through the cracks and when you have to write an essay on a passage you’ll know for sure you’re going to mess up. And she was sort of trying to fill the blanks by talking about herself, about what she does know, instead of trying to really advance the conversation because to be quite honest she was sort of confused right now, and she couldn’t find that particular Italian Wedding soup that came in dinky little cans.
What did self-actualization even mean? Erika wishes she was half as eloquent as Cedar was. Or just… be like her own notions of what Cedar was, viewed from a biased incomplete perspective anyways.
It’s stupid wanting to be someone else.
Maybe if she were a little different from who she actually was, Erika would’ve told Cedar that her brand of self-depreciation is at best unfunny and at most unhealthy, but that would mean that a. She’ll be indirectly criticizing herself, and b. She’ll come off as being an overbearing kind of friend who fusses over everything, even little jokes.
Blood Tongue Nails Teeth
More hiccups. Suspicious and convenient in how it briefly seemed to make details blunt and blur. One click, Photoshop open, all the demolishing of contrast that was only possible in pursuit of the collective or, uh, whatever. Cedar's lungs were trying to escape her chest in concerted bursts, which not only was not the worst pain she'd endured that day by a longshot, but was also annoying in the sense that she felt it was probably interrupting the melody of thoughts in Erika's head with idiot-shaped cacophony. Wavelengths in, destructive interference out.
The silence at least allowed her to meditate on what the fuck she was talking about. No conclusions that way lay though? As Cedar knew, people- she was people, inevitably- could talk forever about something without actually saying a word with meaning. Essay padding strategies, PowerPoint presentations, so on. If Cedar could have perceived her surroundings through the regular jolts of pain rocketing up her windpipe, waiting behind the yellow line, transferring onto her spine? She would have been acutely aware of literally everything else except the two people alone in this particular Whole Foods aisle- because all other shoppers were busy being lured by rotisserie chicken or whatever it was adults with actual responsibility for actual budgets liked to buy here.
She knew Erika was looking for something, she could intuit that even through the haze of what she was reasonably sure was just violent hiccups. She could see the detail on the cans (the actual one not the metaphorical) and she tried her best to be helpfully vague/vaguely helpful with the littlest nudge of her fingers that could be reasonably ignored if the subject matter was not to Erika's unstated priority. This Campbells? This one? This random stray Progresso that was misplaced by a shopper?
"I." hic "Didn't know your folks were."
who said folks anymore lol
hic "Taking care of their?" hic "Parents? That must be tough on." hic "Them. But I'm sure." hic "They don't think you're a burden." hic "At least in a fair." hic "World they wouldn't?" hic
hic
If Cedar wanted to needlessly elaborate further, or if she wanted to follow up on the other conspicuously abandoned conversational thread, or if Cedar wanted to otherwise sail the topic to safer and less relevant waters, she simply wouldn't have had the hiccups. Amateur.
The silence at least allowed her to meditate on what the fuck she was talking about. No conclusions that way lay though? As Cedar knew, people- she was people, inevitably- could talk forever about something without actually saying a word with meaning. Essay padding strategies, PowerPoint presentations, so on. If Cedar could have perceived her surroundings through the regular jolts of pain rocketing up her windpipe, waiting behind the yellow line, transferring onto her spine? She would have been acutely aware of literally everything else except the two people alone in this particular Whole Foods aisle- because all other shoppers were busy being lured by rotisserie chicken or whatever it was adults with actual responsibility for actual budgets liked to buy here.
She knew Erika was looking for something, she could intuit that even through the haze of what she was reasonably sure was just violent hiccups. She could see the detail on the cans (the actual one not the metaphorical) and she tried her best to be helpfully vague/vaguely helpful with the littlest nudge of her fingers that could be reasonably ignored if the subject matter was not to Erika's unstated priority. This Campbells? This one? This random stray Progresso that was misplaced by a shopper?
"I." hic "Didn't know your folks were."
who said folks anymore lol
hic "Taking care of their?" hic "Parents? That must be tough on." hic "Them. But I'm sure." hic "They don't think you're a burden." hic "At least in a fair." hic "World they wouldn't?" hic
hic
If Cedar wanted to needlessly elaborate further, or if she wanted to follow up on the other conspicuously abandoned conversational thread, or if Cedar wanted to otherwise sail the topic to safer and less relevant waters, she simply wouldn't have had the hiccups. Amateur.
"Well, yeah, it's been pretty tough on dad. Emotionally, I mean. Money-wise he's secure, not sure about mom though. She says it's kind of Asian tradition to take care of old folks."
Dissecting the words between the noise was surprisingly difficult. Maybe because she wasn't paying 100% of her attention.
She considered her words. Tradition doesn't work well unless you link another incentive to it, she thought. Like guilt, or fear, or misplaced admiration. Erika herself always was a bit of a go-along-the-grain person herself. It make her feel a little worried that she'll have to take care of everything for mom and dad when they get old and their mind starts to rot, but telling them that she'll leave them to be would be even worse.
"They don't say I am, but I'm pretty sure they feel like that deep down. Imagine spending eighteen years and, what, a hundred, two hundred thousand dollars? On a kid, and she decides to go to art school. If I wasn't that kid, I'll probably be mad."
Who says mad anymore? Erika should be using bigger words now.
She handed her the ball back to Cedar to take her, if she was physically capable of picking it up.
When Erika had the hiccups, her folks would just hand her water, or sometimes pat her on the vague torso-area that probably only made it worse. In her own history nothing really worked, so she always assumed the experience was the same for everyone, and that doing anything but waiting it out was worthless.
She wanted to help her, but she shouldn't touch her, you know? It's just rude. And she shouldn't look down on her any more than she did already physically.
"You need water? I mean, I don't have any, but still..."
Dissecting the words between the noise was surprisingly difficult. Maybe because she wasn't paying 100% of her attention.
She considered her words. Tradition doesn't work well unless you link another incentive to it, she thought. Like guilt, or fear, or misplaced admiration. Erika herself always was a bit of a go-along-the-grain person herself. It make her feel a little worried that she'll have to take care of everything for mom and dad when they get old and their mind starts to rot, but telling them that she'll leave them to be would be even worse.
"They don't say I am, but I'm pretty sure they feel like that deep down. Imagine spending eighteen years and, what, a hundred, two hundred thousand dollars? On a kid, and she decides to go to art school. If I wasn't that kid, I'll probably be mad."
Who says mad anymore? Erika should be using bigger words now.
She handed her the ball back to Cedar to take her, if she was physically capable of picking it up.
When Erika had the hiccups, her folks would just hand her water, or sometimes pat her on the vague torso-area that probably only made it worse. In her own history nothing really worked, so she always assumed the experience was the same for everyone, and that doing anything but waiting it out was worthless.
She wanted to help her, but she shouldn't touch her, you know? It's just rude. And she shouldn't look down on her any more than she did already physically.
"You need water? I mean, I don't have any, but still..."
Blood Tongue Nails Teeth
Her lips sealed mummy tight for a moment. Looked as awkward as she didn't notice it was. She was probably in good company to do her best impression of cracking leather for that moment in time. She nodded at all the times she was supposed to, like the rhythm to a song or the AI to a video game but with less physics engine jank in the latter case.
No air in, no hiccups out.
"No water needed, looks like." Ah, that was an earned smile. The shape of relief hit the eye like a big pizza pie. She didn't hesitate to drop the expression and replace it with a more mundane sculpting of anatomy, vaguely mystified, because the conversation was that enticing in the most general sense like most were when she was and/or wasn't in a good mood.
"Is this one what you're looking for?" She pointed out the label on the can in front of her finger to their left, complicated to translate into thought, simpler in the format of body language. She'd kept looking even before she'd dispelled her own hiccups. Weird how her own anatomy worked. It sounded like something to ask others about, to be added to the way-too-longly long list of conversational filler.
"True in my experience. My own older sister will probably end up taking care of my parents back in the Philippines." And that was all she could safely say on the matter, thereabouts.
"Huh. Would you be mad if you understood your kid's decision from the perspective of having gone through with it yourself?" Cedar wondered if the fact that she couldn't figure out when precisely she was breathing when she went on tangents looked weird outside-looking-in. "I feel like I don't want to jinx myself by assuming I." hic "Wouldn't-? Fuck."
Damn, the hiccup trick hadn't worked. 60% of the time it worked every time, until it didn't. She probably needed to stop martyring herself to the veneer of uninterrupted conversation. It hurt, first off, and trying to ignore one's problems for the sake of others was actually pretty rude and inconsiderate.
"Might need some." hic "Water, yeah."
(( She stops hiccupping eventually, and enjoys her time with a friend in the meantime. ))
No air in, no hiccups out.
"No water needed, looks like." Ah, that was an earned smile. The shape of relief hit the eye like a big pizza pie. She didn't hesitate to drop the expression and replace it with a more mundane sculpting of anatomy, vaguely mystified, because the conversation was that enticing in the most general sense like most were when she was and/or wasn't in a good mood.
"Is this one what you're looking for?" She pointed out the label on the can in front of her finger to their left, complicated to translate into thought, simpler in the format of body language. She'd kept looking even before she'd dispelled her own hiccups. Weird how her own anatomy worked. It sounded like something to ask others about, to be added to the way-too-longly long list of conversational filler.
"True in my experience. My own older sister will probably end up taking care of my parents back in the Philippines." And that was all she could safely say on the matter, thereabouts.
"Huh. Would you be mad if you understood your kid's decision from the perspective of having gone through with it yourself?" Cedar wondered if the fact that she couldn't figure out when precisely she was breathing when she went on tangents looked weird outside-looking-in. "I feel like I don't want to jinx myself by assuming I." hic "Wouldn't-? Fuck."
Damn, the hiccup trick hadn't worked. 60% of the time it worked every time, until it didn't. She probably needed to stop martyring herself to the veneer of uninterrupted conversation. It hurt, first off, and trying to ignore one's problems for the sake of others was actually pretty rude and inconsiderate.
"Might need some." hic "Water, yeah."
(( She stops hiccupping eventually, and enjoys her time with a friend in the meantime. ))
((She phased out for a second, then remembered that she existed.))
Blood Tongue Nails Teeth