Day/Theme: August 16th/16. the crumbling distance between wrong and right
Summary: His name isn't Mutou Yuugi, but he can be persuasive. [Style taken from Toby Barlow's Sharp Teeth.]
There is almost never a time Anzu can recall
of her teenage years
that was not influenced by a card game.
The parts in-between, the scuffles and the
grimy hands and knees
of Jounouchi, the fool,
the major trump of Major Arcana.
She leaves Domino,
her boots laced to the knee and suitcase
lumped somewhere in the cargohold,
with the rest
of the fugitives.
It's too bad, she thinks to herself,
one heel on the boarding ramp, then two,
that she's never liked card games,
just the people who happen to play them.
Four wired nights in a hotel room in Manhattan,
and she hasn't been this alone since
her parents split,
halved the attorney's fees and the furniture.
'America, the land of dreams,'
she can still hear the travel agent saying,
coaxing the raised pen to
touch paper, and throw her life into the mix.
By the sixth night, she regrets leaving.
She doesn't drink, but she drains two glasses
of the most expensive champagne on the menu,
and picks up the phone.
Isis finds his apartment empty,
Rishid unconscious in his reading chair,
and a bottle of chloroform
on the coffee table.
Anzu stares into the night, nursing a glass
that's become her source of companionship, refill after refill.
A city of a thousand lights, the roar of planes
and cars and buses and trains.
A city of a thousand lights
but she's only looking for one.
It's a big thing, what she's asking him to do.
She uses the world clock on her mp3 player
to predict exactly when her problems
will only complicate themselves.
She doesn't answer her cell when Malik calls.
He pressures the stuttering clerk at the front desk until
he gets what he needs, finds out what he wants to know,
and rides the elevator to the top floor.
The spare key isn't supposed to leave
the envelope in the safe,
and his name isn't Mutou Yuugi, but he can be persuasive.
He finds her curled asleep in soft robes
on the padded windowsill.
Her forehead pressed to the glass,
fogged over from her breath.
Malik hides it, tucks it away in one of the bathroom drawers,
then he returns to the dark room,
pulls up a chair to the window,
She looks through his bag,
the only bag he has with him.
Later, mouth to mouth, she wants to know,
"Where are your things?"
He can't find a way to answer that won't frighten her away again.
"On the wrong flight," he says. "They said they'd forward it to New York."
Time is too short when it's wanted
and too long
when it's forced.
The collapse of the lines of her stomach
are not forgotten, nor the hisses
he likes to push
from her lungs. He relearns her that night
- neck shoulders hips thighs -
with just two fingers,
and a sense of appreciation for what
he has missed
in four years.
A quick shower in the morning
a new shampoo, scented soap
and a crisp white towel.
Malik's there with her, slippery hands
pushing her hair back, lips
grinning and kissing and sighing his many frustrations
with her, with the world.
A world of good, a world
Fast-forward five years, she
wants to go back. Unsign the contract,
unsign everything. Travel papers and passports
and sheets for Chicago on the Upper East Side.
she hasn't left Domino yet
it's the day after Kaiba's wild goose chase for power
ends on the beachfront
and Malik is still standing there, smiling.