The Fire Underneath of Things - 8

~1108 words

(split POV again. I kinda like this format tbh)

Ivy began to look forward to her evenings in the workshop. There was always something new to learn or discover there, and spending time with Grey… Ivy blushed, even though there was no one around. She had liked her quiet simple life at the flower shop—she still did. But Nikki had been right. Her days had become monotonous and Ivy had become complacent. Not that she was ever really wild at all. But she did used to have a keen sense of adventure she had stolen mostly from the novels she read. That had settled down when she’d begun to work.

--

It was night again, and Grey was skulking around the city after lighting his final lamp. He had stolen a few things since the bread. He felt a little guilty, but he knew no one would ever miss those tiny things. He’d been missing a button on his coat for months, so he had stolen a silver button to match. He’d nabbed some spare, discarded parts from a metalworking shop: stripped screws and bent plates that weren’t worth the effort of repairing. He’d also nicked a spool of copper wire from the same shop, since he was there.

--

Now that there was something new and adventurous in her life, Ivy picked up a hobby she had left behind in her schooldays: daydreaming. She’d carefully watch the behaviors of customers in her shop and construct stories for them.

“The woman in the green hat buying lilies must be attending a funeral,” Ivy thought, “but she isn’t too sad about it. She must have killed her husband to be with her lover. But she must put on airs so no one suspects it was her.

--

Grey found himself, quite by accident in the food district. The bakery he had taken the bread from wasn’t too far away, but Grey wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t sure where exactly he was going, but his feet seemed to know something he didn’t.

--

“The old man buying one of the very colorful bouquets is taking it to his wife’s grave. His wife loved color and excitement, dances and parties, bright dresses and flashy gems (even if they weren’t real). He knows people at the graveyard see the explosion of orange and yellow and pink and think it inappropriate for the solemnity of the place. But the old man knows better. He knows what flowers his late wife would want on her grave.”

--

Grey found himself outside the window of a meat shop. There was a picture of a smiling pig with a knife it its back on shop’s wooden sign. Inside, Grey swore there was an entire cow’s worth of meat hanging from hooks in the window. The meat was pink and shining. Grey’s mouth watered, imagining the smell that cooking it would bring to the workshop.

--

“The little boy buying a blue-dyed daisy with his pocket change during lunch time must have a crush on the girl who sits in front of him in class. She has red hair she wears in braided pigtails and bright blue eyes. He’s buying the blue daisy because he wants to compare her eyes to the brilliant blue of it. He doesn’t know it’s dyed. But when the boy finds her again at lunch, she’s sitting next to a different boy. The boy with the flower will throw it away and sulk for the rest of the week before falling in love with the blonde in the back of the class.”

--

The smell inside the meat shop was not the smell he had imagined earlier. The meat was preserved, mostly by drying or salting, but it wasn’t cooked. The odor of the butcher’s discarded trimming stank rancidly from the back room, and Grey couldn’t help but gag. He was used to the open-air market.

Grey scanned the butcher shop for something that wouldn’t be missed. It was dark, and he couldn’t see the meat very well. He pulled the lightstick from his lightbox and turned the box to its lowest setting. A dim light glowed from the end of the lightstick. He spied a shelf of salted poultry, with whole quail, pheasants, ducks, chickens, and turkeys. He grabbed a small chicken and moved the remaining birds around so it didn’t look like anything was missing. He flicked off his lightbox, hid the chicken under his coat, and slunk out of the shop.

--

These were the stories that filled Ivy’s head as she worked through the day. She also had Ghost to keep her company. He had grown quite attached to her in just a short amount of time, and Ivy wondered how she’d survived without him. Now he sniffed at flowers as he limped around the shop—he wasn’t quite healed yet. When there were customers, he scampered up shelves to lie on the rafters and watch people with his yellow eyes. He watched so intently that Ivy wondered if Ghost made up stories for them too.

--

Grey ran all the way back to the workshop and stuffed the chicken in the coldbox. He was on edge, and he couldn’t figure out why. What made this time so much different from the other times he had stolen? He still felt the euphoric rush of getting away without getting caught, but there was something bitter gnawing at his stomach.

Checking his scuffed pocket watch, Grey saw there were still a few hours until he needed to put out the streetlamps again. He pulled Gidgit from under his lapel. “Thanks for picking the lock again, Gidg,” he said.

The little arachnoid robot shook a spindly leg at Grey.

“I know you don’t like to do it, but I…” Suddenly Grey realized why he was feeling so morally gross. The other times he had stolen something, he had done it because he had needed or wanted something. But this time, he hadn’t even wanted the meat. He had done it only to impress Ivy and Nikki. So they wouldn’t think he was a disgusting urchin living on rancid tuna. That was it.

No, it was a partial truth, but it went deeper. Grey had always considered himself to be a good cook, especially for what he had to work with. Alder had never complained about Grey’s cooking. Nikki’s comment had hit a sore spot in Grey. He wanted to prove to her and Ivy that he was talented.

“It’s all just a pride show,” he murmured to Gidget absently. The disgust gnawing at his stomach raged to a full-on storm. He couldn’t believe how petty he really was, deep down.