Show Teeth - Pages lyrics

by Sydney H. One of these days this restaurant is going to be full of people, with a line spilling out of the door, and I am going to get thrown out for loitering. Seeing as there probably aren't even enough people in this town to fill the place, let alone start a line, I don't think that will happen anytime soon. Even if there was some sort of calamity that would warrant people being stuffed into large public spaces, I don't think they would choose to come here. The smell of potatoes fried at breakfast lingers all day, mixing with the odor of fish heads and coleslaw from the day before. The beams are low and the fairy fires in strategic corners are unable to decently light the room, or add any sense of atmosphere. It is somewhat cozy on a cold, fall day like this, but at any other time it's just dark. Jordan has told me that's the point. It keeps the health inspector from asking too many questions. The “crowd” from the lunch rush is petering out and Jordan has flopped down in the chair across from me. Her white blouse is the brightest spot in the room. Jordan's boss is going to k** her if he sees her slacking off with me, known to the rest of the staff as “that jerk who only ever buys water”, but I'm happy to let her rest her feet. Now I just have to think of something to say to catch her interest so she won't leave. “Hey, Jordan, have you ever traveled?” “Sure, lots.” I was going to launch into my ‘how-I-got-a-free-trip-to-Jacklyn' story, but I wasn't expecting that answer. “Really? Where to?” “Oh, all over.” She says, twisting her engagement ring around her finger with her thumb. “Been to Thomstead for the fish and South Inel for the flower festival.” She shrugs. “I've been everywhere between here and Loren.” “Why did you stop in Loren?” Jordan looks confused. “That's where I started. Actually, I'm from Carmichal.” Well, now I'm confused. I had thought Jordan had lived here her whole life. It isn't really the destination of choice. Furthermore, “Carmichal doesn't exist.” Jordan makes a strange face, like she's too weak to manage a smile. “Nope. Not anymore. I was in Loren when the fire started. I used to go there all the time on daytrips. Usually with friends, but that time I was alone. ” Her gaze is no longer on me, but somewhere far away. I heard about what happened at Carmichal. It was a mining town. Very prosperous, very well-to-do. Some rich, well-to-do kids went to the mouth of an abandoned mine one night to smoke some cigarettes, not realizing that the mine was abandoned because of the gas coming out. It didn't take more then two hours for most of Carmichal to be gone. “What did you do?” “I kept going. Sort of wandered around. I guess.” She's staring at her hands like she just got them. I have a feeling she didn't mean to tell me that. She looks at the rest of the restaurant. Crap, she's going to get up in a second. “Have you ever been to Zona?” I blurt. “Er-what?” “Zona!” I proclaim with enough enthusiasm that the few remaining patrons turn to stare at me. I may have also leaped out of my chair as I said it. “Gabe,” Jordan hisses, grabbing my sleeve and pulling, “Sit down.” “Well, it's a shame you haven't been there.” I say as I sit. “I think you would like it.” Jordan considers me warily, unsure if I am being serious or if this is going to end in another ‘and-then-we'll-run-away-together-and-change-our-names' speeches. “And why would I like it?” I try to remember why I brought it up in the first place. “It's a little city, tucked away in some mountains in the east.” “Mmm…” She puts her head down on the table, getting ready for a long story. “They're really serious about their religion, and it's one of those ones where you are supposed to be nice to everybody all the time. It's in the mountains, which means it's cold and dark all the time, so they keep a lot of fairy fires along the streets, or stuck to the side of buildings. It always kind of feels like a winter festival is about to start, you know? And you should see the festival they do have in winter. The snow is a foot high, and stuck full of multi-colored lights and they worship and sing and dance all night, and supposedly this makes Zolmulgustar–” “Who?” Jordan asks, raising her head so her chin is on her hands. “Zolmulgustar. He's the demon they worship.” “A demon. Of course.” Her head flops back down. Jordan thinks that half the stories I tell her are made up. She's only right about ten percent of the time. “Well, they call him a demon, but the religion itself is pretty simple and monotheistic. I've met their prophet before, too, she basically invented the whole religion. Real sweet old lady, kind of mad, but her daughter tells me–” “And why,” Jordan cuts me off, somehow finding the energy to sit up, “Would I want to go there?” Ah, er um, eh, “It's pretty.” Jordan rolls her eyes, “It's pretty here.” I look out the window at the grey sleet coming down autumn's corroded leaves. The street lamp is in disrepair and illuminates the scene with a buzzing orange light. I'm thinking of what it's like in Zona, where warm golden lights pool atop snow as fine as powdered sugar. “Not enough for you,” I say, too quiet for Jordan to hear as she gets up to refill some water gla**es.