Liesel looked with a weighted gaze upon the recorder with respect. It peered back at her, at her mind raw with emotion and freshly opened wounds. It told her in a slow, rugged voice, prepare for a reckoning.
“Would you mind by any chance if I record this?”
“Our conversation? I suppose not.”
He smiled. “You see, I’m a writer. Dialogues like this give me ideas alongside my own flights of thoughts.”
“Ah, that’s a wonderful technique.” Liesel said, with warmth in her voice, her interest awoken.
She thought once more of pages painted with crude, fatigued drawings and tender words. She thought of a recollection of Himmel street, thievery, and Max- all that only existed as words, now residing in a novel and in her restless mind. Her undeniable role was filled within moments. “You could say I’m a writer too.”
Art raised his eyebrows and rubbed his hands together. “A kindred spirit. May I ask, what you write about?”
“You must write beautiful stories,” he finally said.
“Would you mind by any chance if I record this?”
“Our conversation? I suppose not.”
He smiled. “You see, I’m a writer. Dialogues like this give me ideas alongside my own flights of thoughts.”
“Ah, that’s a wonderful technique.” Liesel said, with warmth in her voice, her interest awoken.
She thought once more of pages painted with crude, fatigued drawings and tender words. She thought of a recollection of Himmel street, thievery, and Max- all that only existed as words, now residing in a novel and in her restless mind. Her undeniable role was filled within moments. “You could say I’m a writer too.”
Art raised his eyebrows and rubbed his hands together. “A kindred spirit. May I ask, what you write about?”
A mouth queued with pages upon pages of words opened, then slowly shut once more. The words melted. The buildings crumbled. Liesel’s forehead wrinkled like cardboard with worry. “It is hard to explain, if anything.”
“Writing always is when it’s not just between you and the paper.” Liesel emphatically nodded in agreement, and they both sighed as if reminiscing upon old friends.
Art’s black leather shoe bumped on something hard with a jaunty clatter, and he glanced under the table with a start. “Ach-What is that under there?”
There was a smile in Liesel’s voice as she answered, but her eyes strayed with a crestfallen dip. “It’s my accordion. My papa was a wonderful player- and I am hoping to follow in his footsteps.”
“My father always enjoyed listening to good music,” Art said.
Renewed with strength, Liesel tried once more at the previous question that still hung in the air. She began with a familiar comfort. “Anyway, my first writing was with my papa...in my basement. I remember very clearly; he read and wrote with me every night. I was a stubborn child.”
Art laughed. “I’m sure you were.”
Then Art paused, and there was silence. Expectation. For Liesel, the trek through the blinding snow continued.
“I write about my papa’s painting, my mama’s watschens, boiling secrets, and bets for a kiss. I write about colors, the kind that fill the sky after the rage of a tyrannous fire. I write about thievery, and grief, emotions I have run with for so long because I simply cannot bring myself to run away...” She took a deep breath and filled her aching chest with air. The restaurant was still buzzing and yet all seemed to go quiet.
Art nodded, not at all put off by the flood of words that shuddered and stood awkwardly around the table like uninvited guests. Their presence seemed to blow over his shoulders with a wretchedly gentle harmony.
“You must write beautiful stories,” he finally said.