Super Philosophy continued

Sunday's Snippet

Part 2/4. Refer to 05 July post for the beginning of this short

Super Philosophy

“Nu. Here, have a berry,” Dima turns to Maggie and puts a raspberry to her lips.

“I’m not hungry, Dima.”

“Really? You’re always hungry after sex.”

“And?”

            “And why can’t I sing?” Dima shoves a piece of cheese and Maggie’s refused berry into his mouth. “He knows I’m here. Just last week, I saw him when I was coming. He was leaving. Dressed in black.”   In January, his English was pidgin and fragmented. Now, in late August, it’s clear and crisp. Given his profession, the description of her brother’s clothes don’t surprise Maggie. But telling Dima about the work Leon does seems erroneous at this point.

            “Because I don’t want to wake him, Dima. Because this is his house. Because I said so. Okay?”

            Chewing over her answer and his snack, Dima walks to the window. Dope boys are probably posted on the corner; their promise of drug filled light the only brightness on the street. The kettle begins a slow dance on the burner. “America. What a country.”

            His voice, a low purr, tickles Maggie’s conflicted emotions; too many reasons to like him, to let him in, and just as man to keep him out. Self-preservation her strong suit, Maggie has decided that the timeline she’s set for herself is more important than sex or connection. Knowing that’s she’s only shown Dima glimpses of what he wanted to see and what she wanted to show, Maggie’s found a way to keep her real spirit hidden in the desert of her secret self, tucked in deep like the eyes of a Bedouin walking through the sand. “Nu, Kotko, tell me.” Kotko, kitten, Dima’s name for Maggie ever since he learned she knits. Kitten Knitter, he started calling her. The kettle sings shrilly and Dima hastens to silence it, pouring steaming water into chipped thrift store mugs.  Brushing past her in the doorway, Maggie smells the scent to which she’s become accustomed – a little sweat, tobacco, coffee. She forces herself not to react, but softens just a bit all the same. Dima pats a space on her bed, spreading out the sheets.