Two siblings sat in a fine restaurant. The waiters were haughty looking dogs in suits and the chairs were all different sizes and carved out of precious stone.
“A small sliver of your juiciest doubt, if you please,” boomed the elder sibling, in a voice like a bell buried deep in mountain.
“A bowl of summer skies,” smiled the younger sibling, reaching for an olive.
They shivered a little. Even the tablecloth was edged with tiny icicles.
The waiter commanded a sneer. As smart as a sneer could be, and sidled away to the kitchen where an orchestra of flies were consulting the almanac.
“Which symphony shall we play today?”
– “The symphony of shadows?”
– “The symphony of shame?”
– “The symphony of desire!”
“Oh.. we lost that one! It drifted out of the window and we’ve forgotten how it goes.”
(They carried on tuning).
The seasons came and went, and the siblings were aged by the elements.
Many years went by. The air seemed a trifle warmer.
There was only one waiter left, the one who, many years ago, had been the youngest waiter. The others had fallen asleep under the coats in the cloak room with their mouths.
The last waiter walked with a slow, sure, sneer, embedded in the step from many years of practice.
“What would you-“
The question folded and flopped on to the floor because the waiter had fallen asleep mid-question.
The siblings looked at one another.
“Is it time?”
“Let’s make our own food..”
They shuffled curiously into the kitchen, where a tiny orchestra of flies were playing the loveliest music. Frequently almost exactly, the perfect temperature.