"Let's make our way over," I nudged. "What say you, Chris?" The giggling one stretched her long white neck to make eye contact with us across the room. "The ginger, I think she fancies you."
"I'm not in the mood, Shamir." Doing his best to look bored, Christophel fidgeted with his ring again.
"You were glad that I made you talk to a girl the last time we were out at port." Eying the shy blonde girl, I licked my lips. Pointing to the snickering female, I said, "And that girl looks only too happy to put you in the mood if need be." Despite his far-away expression, I detected a hint of a smile. So he did remember the last time.
"We can't stay long," he insisted impatiently. "I have errands, you know, and the captain wants to cast-off by nightfall."
I was halfway across the room before I turned around to answer, "Of course, of course."
Yes, the evening had started well. My mate Christophel chatted politely with the overzealous redheaded girl who was named Ingrid, allowing me to get to know the coy waifish Bianca. Bianca was an interesting girl. I was all too used to the type that indulged in society gossip, but it was rare for one to be so well read in history and philosophy. How a girl who lived in a fetid fishing village had the interest or means to read the amount of literature that she did was fascinating to me. She spoke of Plato's Republic as if it was the one true answer, pages spread wide like Christ the savior, here to save us all. And just when I had the girl leaning over to whisper into my ear, I see a blur of russet velvet rush by, along with Christophel's harsh insistance: "Get off your arse, Shamir, or we'll be late for roll-call." There was a shuffle of good-byes as the girls called fareafter us, watching us disappear.
Waving at the amber-lit sky, I refused to rush. "The sun hasn't nearly set. We have an hour at least." Christophel only grunted in reply. The misty sea-fog fell around us as we neared the docking platform and the fishing town smell rose up around us. There's really no odor that compares to sun-baked rotting fish innards that never fails to accompany these charming little docking towns. The distant sound of gulls cawing fiercely as they fight over scraps of fish accompany the heavy, low pitch of the docking bell, which sounds three long peals: 30 minutes until castoff. And that's when we hear the soft, gravel-like sound of the old man's voice. Although faint, the rasping, scraping sound reaches down into me. I shiver in response and turn towards the source, expecting to see a beggar, a helpless bundle of rags. What I did not expect to see
"I'm not in the mood, Shamir." Doing his best to look bored, Christophel fidgeted with his ring again.
"You were glad that I made you talk to a girl the last time we were out at port." Eying the shy blonde girl, I licked my lips. Pointing to the snickering female, I said, "And that girl looks only too happy to put you in the mood if need be." Despite his far-away expression, I detected a hint of a smile. So he did remember the last time.
"We can't stay long," he insisted impatiently. "I have errands, you know, and the captain wants to cast-off by nightfall."
I was halfway across the room before I turned around to answer, "Of course, of course."
Yes, the evening had started well. My mate Christophel chatted politely with the overzealous redheaded girl who was named Ingrid, allowing me to get to know the coy waifish Bianca. Bianca was an interesting girl. I was all too used to the type that indulged in society gossip, but it was rare for one to be so well read in history and philosophy. How a girl who lived in a fetid fishing village had the interest or means to read the amount of literature that she did was fascinating to me. She spoke of Plato's Republic as if it was the one true answer, pages spread wide like Christ the savior, here to save us all. And just when I had the girl leaning over to whisper into my ear, I see a blur of russet velvet rush by, along with Christophel's harsh insistance: "Get off your arse, Shamir, or we'll be late for roll-call." There was a shuffle of good-byes as the girls called fareafter us, watching us disappear.
Waving at the amber-lit sky, I refused to rush. "The sun hasn't nearly set. We have an hour at least." Christophel only grunted in reply. The misty sea-fog fell around us as we neared the docking platform and the fishing town smell rose up around us. There's really no odor that compares to sun-baked rotting fish innards that never fails to accompany these charming little docking towns. The distant sound of gulls cawing fiercely as they fight over scraps of fish accompany the heavy, low pitch of the docking bell, which sounds three long peals: 30 minutes until castoff. And that's when we hear the soft, gravel-like sound of the old man's voice. Although faint, the rasping, scraping sound reaches down into me. I shiver in response and turn towards the source, expecting to see a beggar, a helpless bundle of rags. What I did not expect to see
