“MOUNTAIN BOOK” by Marie Chatard

I was in the library, predictably reading, unusually hyped up by
this morning’s frappucino, and trying to salvage some remnants of
someone else’s inspiration for my dissertation. I was shoulder-high in
a fortress of philosophy books when he found me seated there, in my
usual corner. Of course, I’d never seen him before.

“Socrates, eh?” He asked. I glanced at the book I’d been absently
balancing on a few fingers while rummaging through notes with my
other hand, looking for a good introductory quote.

“Yea,” I said. “Dear old Soc.”

“Poor old Soc,” he corrected. I blinked. Handsome fellow, but his
accent arrested me more than his features did. As if I couldn’t tell
from his “eh” that we hailed from the same hemisphere of the planet,

his voice could confirm a deaf man’s suspicion. Heavy, sultry, and
merry all at once. Don’t know how he accomplished that fusion, but
there that’s as it was. “The Greek folks poisoned him, eh? Couldn’t
stand a bit of brains.”

“My people,” I agreed. “My ancestors.”

“Ah.” He was taken a bit aback by that. Quickly recovered,
though. “Ah, I see. Well, lucky he was not in Kazakhstan. There we
burn him. Or maybe just the skin off his nose.”

He said it so sympathetically, so matter-of-factly, so thoughtfully—
again, all at once, confound him—that I couldn’t help it. I burst out
laughing, laughing till I cried, laughing till my belly hurt, laughing
until he was laughing with me and we were gasping against the
reprimanding silence of the library.

It was a good start. He took a seat beside me and we read to each
other quietly, like old friends who have spent dozens of seasons
doing exactly that, our accents beautifying this young accent.

“Angreek87″