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“Ah. Is- is my hair that white?” A glance too long, apparently. Airin asks - in a manner more flustered than usual - as she looks up at me.
“No. I can only faintly see them. But you needn’t worry; they are nice to look at. I like them very much.” A gasp and incessant wiggling of the ears tells me all I could ever want to hear.
“Tch. That’s - twice - now that you overstepped, junior.” Airin restrains her ear as she admonishes me.
Past the rows of towering and tightly packed buildings - the dwelling of giant, man, and goblin - are the sparsely lit and roaring shores. Among the pockets of light is a certain eating place standing on stilts, next to a pier.
“The one and only.” Her hand points to the porridgehouse constructed out of little more than plates of tarnished metal and wood planks stitched together. It is not lacking in quality, though, far from it; lines of hooked ducks and pork sit next to a fort of boiling pots and barrels inside the openly visible kitchen; the scent of chicken stock and oyster-sauce covered bacon permeate the air as the fire and steam flares up; each of the long tables around the frontage furnished with the usual basket of condiments; and manned by little more than three persons (most of whom are perhaps as ancient as the architecture), to boot.
Despite twenty-or-so other folk eating here, there is a certain tranquility to having supper here of all places. An ‘out’ from the constant noise and light of the districts.
“Heh. I never knew you to be so old.” As we wait for our meals, Airin teases me on the archaic way I had ordered.
(Egg noodles are ‘yellow’, obviously, and ‘waterfall’ is, well, water!)
“Pft. You are the one ordering a fishhead with your porridge, grandma.” I scratch my neck and return the compliment.
It was only a couple minutes’ wait before the table became full of plates and bowls. Airin got plenty use out of the tin of chili and vinegar - I myself stuck to only a sprinkling of fish sauce. As the bitter-saltiness of oysters goes down my throat, and the well of bacon runs dry, my ears grow more attuned to others’ words. Regrettably.
I hadn’t noticed the contents of their speech earlier, but I - know - indubitably there is a man and a woman behind us even before we planted ourselves onto the stools.
“-- ting. Having their- their childrens flaunt their bodies for the entirety of the town to see — what sort of parents are they.” Spite drips from every word that leaves this middling-aged woman’s lips. “Lower sort ruining the beach for fucking everyone.”
“How old your son is, again? Fo- fifteen?” The man briefly speaks up. Sounds like a goblin, judging from the height it is coming from. He does not seem to care any too well about the matter she talks of.
