As I’m writing this, I’m listening to a truly atrocious conversation going on at the coffee shop behind me. I’ve been trying to start this blog post for roughly twenty minutes, but I’m so wrapped up in discovering what awful opinion is going to come spilling out of this man’s mouth next (especially because he drops the volume every time he goes to say something awful) that I couldn’t get started.
I keep thinking the conversation has reached a low point, but they find new depths to plumb. I suppose sharing their horrible opinions is how they’re getting to know one another; I’m getting to know them, too, and I’m thinking more and more about unhinging my jaw and swallowing the world. Such is the life of writing in coffeeshops.
Anyway, here’s a drabble.
(a.) from Latin pausiloquim, for speaking few words
A person who speaks few words.
Steven doesn’t talk much. It isn’t that he doesn’t like talking—he thinks he might, if given the chance—but there’s so much weight in every word. There’s meanings on meanings, language heavy with symbolism until each word weighs on his tongue like a leaden weight.
Weight, a heavy thing. Wait, a pause, a hesitation, a moment of stasis that drags on and on until something tells you it’s okay to begin. Steven has been waiting a long time, words building behind his teeth like water behind a dam. They’ll burst forth someday, cracking his teeth and flooding the world.