[football] who says eating and writing aren't related?
another part of this.
Ricky plucks a peach from the fruit bowl kristen leaves on the kitchen island each morning, and absently tosses it back and forth between his hands as he walks through the house. andriy suppresses a frown. it’s an oddly intimate thing to do; he’s become accustomed to serving guests steaks and champagne in crystal flutes at long dining tables, and the sight of ricky walking barefoot through his kitchen is different from how he remembers it to be: less comfortable, nearly invasive. but then again, privacy has risen in his priorities this past year. nonetheless, andriy can smell the fruit warming in ricky’s hands as they head towards the veranda, the honeyed nectar of it staining the air. once outside, andriy asks him about his summer thus far, but ricky doesn’t answer. he takes a bite of the peach instead and its skin is so forgiving it nearly curls away from the flesh before those white, white teeth even pierce it.
andriy tries to look away, but ricky’s voice stops him. it’s delicious, he says, and offers him a bite - palm open upwards and curled around the heavy roundness of the fruit, fingers thin and pale and their tips wet with juice (відьма hands, andriy remembers thinking once, reminded of the women in his village who spent their lives drenched by the perfume of drying herbs, always chopping, bottling, mixing; strange, unnatural hands that belonged in folk tales). andriy looks at him then, really looks at him for the first time, and what would have once been innocence in those eyes is now something deliberate, desirous, taunting. when andriy left, ricky was certain in his faith, and now he is certain in himself as well. everything has shifted slightly; he feels an unsteadiness, an exhilaration, but, more than that, some deep sense of loss. he had been a fool to think that ricky would not change, that such cleanliness could be preserved. still, he knows what he is being offered. he should say no, but he says yes.
andriy sinks his teeth into the curve of the peach, sun-drenched liquid dripping down his lips; the fruit is ripe to the point of spoiling, its sweetness just a touch away from rotting, bruised and addictive. he swallows. ricky’s fingers, the hard neat edges of his nails, brush just the slightest against his mouth. it’s good, isn’t it?, the other man is saying. i’m sure caroline would love to know where kristen buys these from. ricky smiles, another flash of brightness in an already bright world, the sky painfully blue behind him, the sun relentless on both their shoulders, the water of the pool flashing white and blinding at the corners of their eyes. andriy rubs his mouth against the back of his hand with more force than is necessary.
after fourteen months of powerlessness, he feels it in an entirely new way now, and he doesn’t know whether to be angry or relieved.
відьма - witch
we just bought new peaches, and i just ate a slice. it was delicious, summer concentrated. then i sat down and wrote this. and now i have an inexplicable urge to write something about the south. i'm not quite sure what i'm trying to say here - there's all sorts of implications about corruption and being tainted, both in terms of kaka himself and the professional world he's living in, about religion and its justifications, andriy's weakness, exchanges and payments and debts owed. but i can't really even think about it, let alone untangle what i want to talk about. and it sounds so pretentious when i try to talk about what i'm writing, so maybe it's just this: a young man, a slightly older one, a summer day, and a fruit.
ps. this post is worth checking out for numerous reasons, the chief among them being daniel agger shirtless. also, steve finnan, jamie carragher smiling (which i really, really love), xabi alonso appearing vaguely flaming (speaking of which, i keep seeing photos of carra and him speaking to each other and appearing as if they can actually understand the other's accent - mindboggling, really), and the liverpool boys being generally lovely and good with fans. reading some comments from the hong kong people is vaguely hilarious though; torres went to the hotel with a girl! so and so got drunk! dying.
Ricky plucks a peach from the fruit bowl kristen leaves on the kitchen island each morning, and absently tosses it back and forth between his hands as he walks through the house. andriy suppresses a frown. it’s an oddly intimate thing to do; he’s become accustomed to serving guests steaks and champagne in crystal flutes at long dining tables, and the sight of ricky walking barefoot through his kitchen is different from how he remembers it to be: less comfortable, nearly invasive. but then again, privacy has risen in his priorities this past year. nonetheless, andriy can smell the fruit warming in ricky’s hands as they head towards the veranda, the honeyed nectar of it staining the air. once outside, andriy asks him about his summer thus far, but ricky doesn’t answer. he takes a bite of the peach instead and its skin is so forgiving it nearly curls away from the flesh before those white, white teeth even pierce it.
andriy tries to look away, but ricky’s voice stops him. it’s delicious, he says, and offers him a bite - palm open upwards and curled around the heavy roundness of the fruit, fingers thin and pale and their tips wet with juice (відьма hands, andriy remembers thinking once, reminded of the women in his village who spent their lives drenched by the perfume of drying herbs, always chopping, bottling, mixing; strange, unnatural hands that belonged in folk tales). andriy looks at him then, really looks at him for the first time, and what would have once been innocence in those eyes is now something deliberate, desirous, taunting. when andriy left, ricky was certain in his faith, and now he is certain in himself as well. everything has shifted slightly; he feels an unsteadiness, an exhilaration, but, more than that, some deep sense of loss. he had been a fool to think that ricky would not change, that such cleanliness could be preserved. still, he knows what he is being offered. he should say no, but he says yes.
andriy sinks his teeth into the curve of the peach, sun-drenched liquid dripping down his lips; the fruit is ripe to the point of spoiling, its sweetness just a touch away from rotting, bruised and addictive. he swallows. ricky’s fingers, the hard neat edges of his nails, brush just the slightest against his mouth. it’s good, isn’t it?, the other man is saying. i’m sure caroline would love to know where kristen buys these from. ricky smiles, another flash of brightness in an already bright world, the sky painfully blue behind him, the sun relentless on both their shoulders, the water of the pool flashing white and blinding at the corners of their eyes. andriy rubs his mouth against the back of his hand with more force than is necessary.
after fourteen months of powerlessness, he feels it in an entirely new way now, and he doesn’t know whether to be angry or relieved.
відьма - witch
we just bought new peaches, and i just ate a slice. it was delicious, summer concentrated. then i sat down and wrote this. and now i have an inexplicable urge to write something about the south. i'm not quite sure what i'm trying to say here - there's all sorts of implications about corruption and being tainted, both in terms of kaka himself and the professional world he's living in, about religion and its justifications, andriy's weakness, exchanges and payments and debts owed. but i can't really even think about it, let alone untangle what i want to talk about. and it sounds so pretentious when i try to talk about what i'm writing, so maybe it's just this: a young man, a slightly older one, a summer day, and a fruit.
ps. this post is worth checking out for numerous reasons, the chief among them being daniel agger shirtless. also, steve finnan, jamie carragher smiling (which i really, really love), xabi alonso appearing vaguely flaming (speaking of which, i keep seeing photos of carra and him speaking to each other and appearing as if they can actually understand the other's accent - mindboggling, really), and the liverpool boys being generally lovely and good with fans. reading some comments from the hong kong people is vaguely hilarious though; torres went to the hotel with a girl! so and so got drunk! dying.