Face of Eternity : The Little Angel

Mel sat down at the very edge of a bar stool, keeping both his arms folded on the clean counter top. Anyone watching him, and plenty of eyes from young women were, would have assumed he was ready to drink all his problems away. Such deep brooding was only reserved for the most troubled men.

But he ordered a simple glass of honey wine. He wasn’t the type to enjoy anything more complex than that.

A woman was brave enough to venture toward the lone man, sitting right next to him. Her hair bleach blonde like staring at sand in the sunlight, her eyes glinting green like emeralds.

He merely gave her a glance, hardly enough to pick up all her features, but he’d seen all he needed to.

“I’ll order what he’s having,” she said to the bartender.

As requested, the bartender retrieved a glass of the same honey wine that Mel had ordered.

Once her lips pressed into the edge of her glass, sweet golden liquid poured into her mouth.

“You have good taste,” she complimented Mel. “This wine is imported from the Gali islands down south. Very expensive, but smooth.”

“Really?” He held the drink up and took a sip. “All these drinks end up tasting the same after you’ve had enough of them.”

Mel’s deep tone bewitched the woman, she couldn’t help but stare at him with her easy going eyes.

“You know, since the incident, the cheap bars have been filled with men trying to drown their problems. If you really felt that way, you would be with them right now.”

Mel scoffed, impressed at the woman’s inquisitive skills.

He took another sip, then let his glass sit on the table.

“If a man wants to forget his problems, he’s no man at all. Isn’t that how the proverb goes?”

He’d quoted not scriptures of religious texts, but wise words handed down from fathers to sons for untold generations. A right of passage of sorts for the masculine.

Now the woman was impressed, practically swooning with her eyes at a man who remembered such chivalrous ideals.

“What’s your name?” She asked him, sinking her chin into her hands, resting her elbows on the counter.

“Call me Mel.”

“Mel, huh?” She fluttered her eyes. “I’m Emily.”

Mel had heard that name before, impressed by the many myths that came with it. From her bleach blonde hair, to those deep green eyes, it was like he already knew who she was.

Both their drinks sat idle on the table, bubbling up, slowly becoming room temperature.

“Emily. You’re reputation precedes you.” Mel said.

“Oh?” Her head curiously tilted.

Mel was ready to venture into the dark and claim this woman to be the one on his mind. Her craftsmanship with cloth was said to be legendary, her wit unmatched, her generosity unending. Someone he could respect for being so skilled.

“I’ve heard praises of your work with clothing and armour, and you seem to be quite the giving type.”

If anyone but him had told her that, she’d have considered it mere flattery. But this was a challenge, one where information was the only way to win.

“You flatter me," she admitted anyways, keeping up her personality. "I’m one of the best tailors of my profession,” she boasted. “Although, right now I’m employed by a pretty famous doctor. I think his name is…oh shoot…” her voice turned sarcastically disingenuous. “Asamo, was it?”

Upon hearing that name, Mel’s head tilted toward her, seriousness washing over his expression.

“I see.” Mel nodded to her.

The door to the women’s restroom opened up. Something decidedly small and bright began marching over to Mel, taking a seat at his side.

“Uncle, I washed my hands. Can I have some of those crispy carrots now?”

A little white haired girl joined the fray, slurping down a juice box and turning to Emily with a big smile.

*GASP*

“It’s Emily! Hi Miss. Emily!” She waved like her life depended on it, putting her whole body forward and nearly falling off the stool. “Look, look! I’m still wearing the stuff you made for me!”

Emily was happy to see the white haired child was pleased with her work. For as second nature as her skills had become, seeing someone actually wearing her craft was the true testament of skill.

“Uncle, I drank all my juice box. Can I have another? Ooooh! What’s that?!” The child pointed to the bubbling honey wine. “I want some!”

“Now, now, this isn’t a drink for children.”

“Uncle, you’re not supposed to drink anything though. I thought you said you can’t.”

“I can indulge a little every now and again.”

“But…” The little girl's face turned sour. Anger spilled over her brow, bringing it down low. “You never drink anything at my tea parties. I’m so mad!” Her cheeks puffed up.

Emily knew the ire of this little girl was justified. The sacred ritual of a tea party was never to be ignored. Perhaps she had the wrong impression of Mel? Or, maybe he was more of a man then she thought.

“Mel, how could you?” she teased him with a smile, slapping his shoulder lightly. “Tea is far more precious than any of this swill. Boys guzzle beer…men drink fine wine…but champions sip tea.”

Mel put his hat down. Covering up the nearly invisible embarrassment on his face.

“My mistake, I suppose.” He smiled, knowing that the punishment from his niece would be light.

“Oooh, oooh!” The little girl bounced around in her seat, getting on her knees and overtaking the height of her uncle. “I want tea right now.”

A fresh juice box had already been placed in front of her and she barbarically peeled the plastic from the straw, then stabbed it into the tunnel for sweet liquefied fruit juice.

“Careful, little thing, all that drink will go right through you,” Emily smiled.

“It’s okay. I dissect it all into adams. Then it goes into the cork fooshin core.”

*SLURP*

Emily couldn’t help but snicker at the little girl's many grammatical blunders.

“Young Mistress, how many of those words you just said were actually correct?” Her Uncle scolded.

The little girl blankly stared at him for a moment, her lips were moving ever so slightly, like she was re-speaking silent words.

“Gahhhh!” She put her hands over her face in deeply entrenched shame. “I suck at words!”