In the Gaps

A familiar clacking of the old wooden sliding door doesn’t draw attention so much as the burst of energy it admits. A voice, just louder than the surrounding hush, rasps, “Oi, Oi, whar’s bri noo?”

The pixie-like barista pivots from her pots where she is busy combining what smells like sunlight and greenness into a tea canister. She wags her chin, “Ben back.”

The young man spins for the back wall wooshing past a dark-haired woman in a wingbacked chair by the window. She pulls her pencil back from her sketchbook and angles it to consider the lens shape she just drew. The book drifts onto her lap and she leans up to grab her mug. She presses back into the lush wings and sips. Her ears perk at the cough of air from a cushion compressing away to her right.

Another voice invites beside it, “Howzit? Yeh nae luik sae brawly, yan,” then slightly louder, “Oi Nawa, whatever bri baura, ne.”

The fairy floats into action with only a second’s consideration. Soon the clink of a strainer and the waft of a new scent confirms her selection. Moments later, the barista glides by on soundless feet, leaving a trail of earthy steam and a mug on a low wizened table.

The newcomer flashes gratitude toward the cup and reaches for it, elongating the four linked X shapes that embroider his sleeve. He breathes in the steam and slurps a cooling test. “Mo~ ne,” he exhales as his eyelids float down.

The friend stays jauntily relaxed on his sofa, arm braced over a pillow. “Spit, bri!”

The sipper leans back, “At wark, yan. I made a side remark about movin’ my desk ta my office warden. Gang fa quiet from th’ chat party back o’ me for 3 solid hours, ne. Today, boss come spit, ‘Neighbor’s having a hard time at home right now, so we all gotta be a little understanding.’ Bah!”

“Akhi! Nae maalesh, yan! Heiki?” the concern in his tone overriding the sharpness of his Scarrae speech.

“Get out! Nae heiki!” the new guy punctuates with daggers in the words. “Why ma word gang fa bad? I work hard, ne. I didn’t even complain! Ah’m Scary. Das it noo. But Ah ken the noo.”

“Metch! Scary gang ben riss, yan. Das us noo!” the jaunty voice encourages with a dull slap of flesh against shoulder.

The whispered heat is cooled by a soft breeze from underneath the stairs, “Gang ben riss, ken furja.” It wafts from in front of a long white ponytail. A slightly weathered hand scrubs two fingers on the nape of the brown rat munching a cracker beside a half empty yunomi on this taller table.

“Tane’s tither, ne,” one younger voice offers back, weighing his empty hands.

“Zat sae?” The keen eye pivots momentarily toward the two, then back to his furry companion.

“They don’t see us. Sae we work the cracks they leave us in. How else yeh ken?“

“Mo…” the pause grows nearly uncomfortable, like he may have given it up.

The other youth taps his friend as words germinate, “Tane is whar yeh fall. Tither’s what yeh catch, ne?”

“Ehhh…” the friend emanates a question on the brink of its own answer.

The rat now balances on the back of the thin hand, brushing whiskers against the scruffy lips. The still brook of a voice trickles, “Nae gang ben riss, nae ken furja, ne.”

The ensuing hush is underlined by the long slow stroke of a pencil on the pad by the window.