by Joseph Bonis
She pursed her lips and blew again, harder this time, and with purpose in mind. Mist billowed from her pursed lips, washed over her cabinets, and she watched as an icy frost spread across them, lovely little crystalline patterns multiplying and growing across the white wood. Both her hands came up quickly to cover her mouth as she let out a burst of joyful laughter. Oh, dear, she could ruin the wood that way. But it was so hard to care!
She looked down at the filthy water in the pot and let out another long exhalation of chilly mist. The water across the surface crackled and hardened – starting first at the edges, then creeping towards the middle, it iced over in a matter of seconds. Hardly believing it, she reached down to poke at the ice, which broke under the pressure. Very thin, but she'd hardly been trying.
A whole mass of things she wanted to try came rushing through her mind, but they all carried with them some risk – being seen, freezing her pipes and causing them to burst, destroying her kitchen by freezing it over, giving all the food in her fridge freezer burn … soon, she promised herself. She'd play with this soon, and safely. At the arena. That was the place for it, right? Still, her delighted giggle sounded as she bit at her lower lip, barely able to restrain herself.
Tracy grinned and concentrated again, stirring her hand through the air above the pot, and the water swirled, matching the speed of her hand, turning into a tiny whirlpool inside the pot. The surface ice crackled and broke into small, disintegrating shards. She shifted her mind away from merely moving the water to applying a little focused attention, and the water darkened as it wore away at the blackened and charred mess within, a little at a time. She lifted her hand and the water followed it, pulling away from the sides of the pot and hovering in mid-air.
She held it there a moment, thrilled at how the water was simply defying gravity … then she pointed at the drain of the sink, and it funneled down into it, following her gesture as if draining through an invisible, spiraling hose. It left behind a gleaming, clean metal pot showing only the worn scrapes and scratches and discolorations from several years' worth of use.
A huge smile spread across Tracy's face at how easily the difficult task had been finished off. “Ah,” she sighed happily, “I think I can learn to live with this.”
The clock wore on, and Tracy paced the apartment, her imagination jumping to all sorts of reasons why Sing might not be there yet. “You're being paranoid,” she told herself. She sat down and took Nameless into her lap, petting lightly over his back, much to his contentment, then leaping up and brushing off her skirts and shirt again, having covered them with cat hair once more. Then she prowled the apartment, starting to tidy up small messes, then stopping before she could get dust on her clothes.
“Oh, this is ridiculous,” she grumbled to herself, and went in back to her second bedroom.
Unlike her actual bedroom, this bedroom was set up more like an office or a library. Every wall had more than one bookshelf, full-sized, with a broad desk under the room's single window, covered with a thick sheet to protect it from all the jewelry-making equipment she had strewn all over it, not quite put away into the set of drawers next to the desk. A pile of pillows decorated one corner, along with a nearby lamp. Many of the pillows were actually dog pillows, but Tracy didn't care - they were comfortable, once she stuffed them with extra padding, and much cheaper than similarly sized 'deluxe pillows' that you could buy for humans. A number of old, worn stuffed animals were mixed in with the pillows, fond old childhood friends that Tracy could never give up.
The room was musty - the only room she didn't air out on a regular basis - and thick with the much-loved odor of old paper. She browsed along the bookshelves, wondering what to read… and remembering her conversation earlier that day with Jacob, she decided to re-read a fantasy book with elementally based magic. Taking down the small paperback - only read twice so far - Tracy kicked the pillows in the corner closer together and curled up on them, pulling a blanket half-over herself as she settled in to wait for Sing to show up.
At first, it was hard for her to get into the book, her mind awash with everything that had happened to her, and worry about what was going to happen. Slowly, though, the written words worked their narrative spell over her, and she lost track of the real world to comfortably submerge herself completely in the story. The thrill of the chase, the other-worldliness of hostile spirits and magic, the peace of refuge, and the warm feeling of the old-world homestead settled into her, and was even more calming as it confirmed magic's place as 'somewhere else' for the time being.
When the door buzzer rang, shattering the near-silence of her apartment, it made her jump with surprise and look around confusedly - for a couple of seconds, she was still in that other, fictional world, and the normally familiar surroundings were alien and bizarre. Reality asserted itself once more, though, and she remembered that she was waiting for Sing. She stood up quickly and shook her skirts out as she walked to the door. “Yes?” she asked, as she pressed the intercom button.
“It's me,” came Sing's familiar voice, and she pressed the door release, then unlocked the door and the bolt and went off to her room quickly to check her makeup. She felt the door open, the faint, subtle shift of air pressure created by the opening door, and heard his footsteps as he walked into the kitchen. She heard the rustle of plastic bags, the clunk of bottles and boxes hitting the counter, and her curiosity roused itself. What had he brought? Weren't they just going out for dinner?
She heard him open up the fridge, and a faint click as he pulled something out, bumping it against the side. She touched up her slight makeup quickly, but the blanket's static buildup had mussed her hair while she was reading, and it was taking longer to fix that. She heard a crackling noise, and realized he was dumping ice into something, and that it must have been the freezer, not the fridge, that he had opened up, then the water as he refilled the ice cube trays. Curse society's mores! She was sure guys never had to go through this much trouble to get ready, especially not after they had already been prepared half an hour earlier.
Finally, she judged her adjustments acceptable, and brushed her hands down over her blouse, the gesture also a settling one over the butterflies in her stomach. “I've known him for years,” she softly murmured to herself. “We've had hundreds of meals together. There's nothing to be nervous about.” Logic and emotion warred, but emotion won, and the butterflies stayed. Sighing, she stepped out of her room and headed to the kitchen.
Sing had gone home and changed. He was wearing black slacks, now, and black shoes that shone with a 'just-polished' look to it, though slightly scuffed at the sides and heel with the white salt that coated everything as the winter wore on. He wore the same blue silk shirt, but he no longer wore the tie, instead having undone the top two buttons. She had never seen him wear a shirt like that before, and she had to admit that the effect was very sexy - Sing was scrawny, but not in an unhealthy way, and she remembered from summer trips to the beach how his lithely muscled chest looked. The effect of this slightly sloppy peek at his chest, though, made her want to check and see if her memory was accurate. She felt a faint flush rise in her cheeks as these thoughts and others rampaged through her mind for just a moment. She looked past him to see what he had brought.
The pot on the counter had a bottle's neck sticking up out of it, and she happily chirped, “You brought wine!”
She stepped forward, to see what it was, and then his arm was around her waist. “What, no greeting? Not a kiss? Not even a hug?” he asked, a mock-hurt expression on his face as he drew her close. “I see what you're using me for.”
She giggled at him and gave him a soft little kiss, exploring his lips for a moment as one of her hands touched lightly on his chest, her fingertips just brushing the opening in his shirt. His light cologne and his natural spicy scent mixed nicely in her nose - most men never figured out that right level to use, but Sing was subtle in his scents, subtle and exciting. “Yes,” she admitted playfully, “The last eight years of
friendship have just been a clever ploy to get you to buy wine for me.”
“You should have said something,” he replied. His warm breath washed over her face, and she smelled wintergreen on it, rather strongly - he must have eaten half a pack of Lifesavers. “I would have done so sooner.” He paused, and she giggled in the space between his sentences. “So,” he asked, “Did anyone get points there?”
Tracy smiled and shook her head. “Either neither of us did, or both of us did,” she laughed. “Either way, it doesn't matter. So what kind of wine is that? And what's the rest of it? I thought we were going out?” She started towards the bags on the counter, and Sing's arm tightened around her waist and pulled her back.
“Oh, no you don't,” he said, amusement evident in his voice. “We are going out, and this is a surprise for when you get back.” She turned back to him and saw his sly, excited grin.
With a light, playful bap at his chest, she rolled her eyes. “Oh, have your little games, then,” she murmured with an amused and very fake grumpiness, and then her stomach made a bit of a noise. Ruefully, she realized she hadn't actually eaten anything more than the toast and raspberry jam much earlier today. “Shall we go?”
Sing nodded, and they paused only long enough for Tracy to leave open a can of cat food for Nameless, leaving him eating contentedly and delicately as they headed out the door. They walked down the hall, and Tracy was more interested in Sing's pleasant scent as she held onto his arm lightly than the varied scents coming from the various doors they passed. His hand closed around hers, and she twined her slender fingers with his. “So,” Sing asked, “Where were you thinking of going?”
Tracy considered the question. Great little restaurants were all around, quaint little places she liked to explore and frequent occasionally. “Well,” she murmured thoughtfully, “It depends on what you feel like having. There's a nice Mongolian place nearby, we can choose Mexican or Italian, and there's a nice little family diner with burgers and pancakes at all hours … or … ” Tracy's eyes glinted mischievously. “Are you feeling adventurous?”
Sing raised one eyebrow suspiciously. “Adventurous?” he asked, curiously. “Now, I can't turn that away without finding out what you mean. What sort of food is 'adventurous'?”
Tracy grinned an amused, excited little grin. “I don't know,” she said, playfully, “I guess we'll have to look inside and find out.”
She led him down the street, enjoying his amused frustration as he tried to get her to tell him where they were going, and what kind of food would be there. “I don't know,” she kept telling him.
“You haven't been there before?” he had tried to understand.
“Oh, no, I love this place. I go there a couple times a month,” she responded, gleefully.
“Then it's just odd? You don't know how to explain it? You can't identify the food?”
“That's not it at all,” she chirped happily. “Just wait and see. You will understand once you see it.”
Sing let out a sigh of amused frustration, again, and looked up towards the sky. “You are impossible!”
“One Point,” she reminded him, and he laughed and shook his head, then continued pressing her for information, to her great amusement.
She slowed her pace as they approached the last corner. She felt a faint pressure in her mind, and it worried her. She knew that pressure - she'd felt it that first night. It was how she'd known Jacob was outside the dojong. It had pressed on her as she had driven into the parking lot of the arena. Someone with charms was nearby, and Tracy was walking towards him or her.
“Well,” she said softly, not letting her nervousness press on her too much. “Ready to find out what sort of food we're going to have?”
Sing laughed. “Of course!” he said.
“Well,” she replied, tingling with excitement as they turned the corner, “Let's collapse the waveform, then.” She lifted her hand, the charm bracelet dangling around it, to point at one of the buildings.
A few buildings down was a small place, with a small window and a door, and nothing more. Inside the window was a series of small moving objects. Some were trinkets and toys of strange shapes, but pleasing to the eye, connected by wires and swirling softly. Sometimes it seemed they almost made a recognizable shape, but then they moved on again. Others were eternal movement toys, spinning globes suspended between magnets, or rows of little metal balls clacking against each other. The centerpiece of the window, though, was a simple shoe box with no markings on it, and nothing resting atop it.
The sign above the store said “Schrödinger's.”
Sing gave Tracy an incredulous look. “There's a geek restaurant in town and you haven't shared it with us yet?!”
Tracy gave him a mischievous grin.
“So what sort of food does it serve?” Sing asked, curious, waiting for a break in traffic so they could cross the street. The wind blew up around them, and Tracy felt Sing shiver next to her.
Tracy giggled. “What, you haven't figured it out yet?” asked Tracy, grinning impishly. Sing rolled his eyes. “You know what Schrödinger's Cat is, right?”
Sing nodded. “Of course. A theoretical cat is put in a box with a death trap of some sort, something to do with a radioactive material triggering a vial of poison or something. At a certain point in time, there is a 50/50 chance that the trap has gone off. At that time, the cat is both alive and dead at the same time, and it does not become one or the other until an observer opens the box and forces the probability wave to collapse.”
With a grin and humor in her voice, Tracy finally explained. “He doesn't have a menu, or anything like that. The only things to eat are the daily specials. And he doesn't have a public phone number. The only way you can resolve what he has to eat… is to open the door and observe it for yourself.”
Sing let out a hearty laugh. “That's brilliant! But I'm surprised that it's popular enough for him to stay in business.”
Tracy shrugged. “I'm not about to question good fortune. He has delicious food. The stories say that he had top marks in his culinary classes, but he got fired from everywhere because he made what he felt like making, not what was ordered. So he opened his own shop.”
As far as she showed Sing, she was eager to show him the restaurant, and she tried to hold to that excitement, but somewhere deep down she was sighing in frustration. The pressure on her mind told her quite clearly that whomever had that other charm was inside the restaurant right now.
Chapter 7: Romance
The small restaurant was made even smaller by the partitions that kept any table from seeing more than two or three others, half-walls topped by frosted glass cubes squares, which were in turn topped by planters filled with leafy vines that lacked the green scent of living flora. Instead, the entire restaurant was filled with the rich smell of dozens of recipes all mingling together. The partitions helped to dull nearby conversations into an unintelligible background murmur as Tracy and Sing walked from opening to opening, looking for an empty table.
Sing gave Tracy a grin. “It's bigger on the inside than on the outside,” he joked.
Tracy grinned back. It did seem that way, the twisty layout helping to create the impression that there was much more hidden away just beyond sight. At the end of the central walkway was the counter, lined with a dozen stools so that people could enjoy their food right there instead of taking it to their table, or just rest while they waited for it to cook. Behind the counter was a medium-height, blond man, thick across the shoulders and the stomach both. He wore a jeans a dark green t-shirt, and a large white apron spattered with food stains. He looked up as they came close, and his eyes widened.
“Tracy?!” came his incredulous voice. Tracy knew what he was surprised about - she felt it too. The pressure in her skull pointed right at him. He held charms.
Tracy wanted to say something, to ask, but Sing's presence at her elbow gave her pause. She knew Hans. She'd been coming here regularly for the past several years. She almost
always sat at the counter to eat, trading recipes and ideas for culinary experiments, and when she was feeling moody, she ate for free. She had no idea how he'd known at the time, but once when she took sick and could barely move around without tiring herself out, he had sent up a half a pot worth of his chicken noodle soup, with the thick home-made noodles that you couldn't get anywhere else, and had refused money for it.
Schrödinger's was a comfortable port to take refuge in whenever life became too choppy - a place of normality and comfort whenever the world seemed too strange or absurd. It was as comfortable as home. How could he be part of this … secret magical community?
Hans asked Tracy a question with his eyes, and Tracy gave a little shake to her head, then turned towards Sing. “Hey,” she said, lightly, shrugging out of her coat and handing it to him, “Could you hang this up for me?”
Sing smiled, looking around at everything eagerly, especially focusing on the row of logic puzzles arrayed along a shelf behind the counter. He hardly seemed to think about it as he took the coat. “What a great place,” he sighed happily.
Tracy turned back to Hans, wanting to ask him a question, but Hans was quicker. “Are you registered?” he asked, low, intently.
Tracy nodded quickly and murmured, “This morning. How long have you been …. ” she stopped, unsure how to put it. “that is, how long have you had … ” she lifted up her wrist and gestured at the charm bracelet.
Hans smiled. “several years. Congratulations, Tracy. Always know you are suited to different life.” Hans spoke with an odd, halting accent. It wasn't German like you'd expect from Hans' name, but Tracy could never figure out just where it was from. From the stilted way he talked, people often thought it was Russian, but that didn't match up with the inflection in his voice.