Reprobate and emollient

When the man on the street thumping the thick black book told Lucy she was going to hell, no one could console her. She moaned and wailed and clung to her mother's coat with white knuckles. Her father tried to explain that the man was crazy, like old Aunt Gertrude, and that nothing he said mattered, but Lucy had seen the man's eyes. They weren't cloudy or crossed like her great aunt's. They were clear, more clear than anyone else's on this earth. They were like the eyes of a cat who had lived forever and seen everything and knew all the truths there were to know.

Escutcheon and guerdon

The reward for a long, hard night of work, he thought, was getting to see her. He spent hours every day slaving away in the bowels of the ship, feeding it, helping it to digest, and turn that fuel into movement. The work put knots in his back, sweat in his eyes, aches in his bones. The only relief, he'd learned, was Sara. Every morning, after his shift ended but before the sun rose, he snuck into the hall of first class cabins and crept to the end of the row. There the captain's beautiful daughter slept. At sixteen, she was womanly of body but girlish of face, and the combination warmed his heart and gut. Through the keyhole he could see her resting on her side, one hand tucked under her chin, curly lashes shielding eyes bluer than the seas on which they sailed. All he needed was ten minutes of her to recharge. Then he slipped back down to the workers' bunks and passed out for the few hours he was allowed. It was a tough life, but with her around, he'd found happiness.

Amatory, Lucullan, and nabob

I know that we are not kings and queens, and yet I cannot find myself fully convinced. The richness of your love is my kingdom. I am both ruler and subject. I am both sun and moon. You are the water and the earth. You soak me in, you give me purpose. You are my audience, I am your fuel. What could be more royal than this humble life we lead? You would probably be embarrassed to hear me gush on this way, but I know you feel the same.

Adulterate, affectation, and eminence grise

"Malmus the Great did not want anyone to know who was behind this mutiny against their king, so he disguised himself at every meeting, wearing a hood and speaking through spiced cloths. He stooped his back and enlarged his walk. He cackled like every good bad guy should."

"I don't think this is how the story goes, Paw paw."

The old man peered over his glasses at the young boy in the race car bed. He lifted a brow. "Can you read?"

"No..."

"Then this this how the story goes."

The boy pouted but did not protest further. Paw paw cleared his throat and continued.

What he did not mention was that he could not read either. Not because he was illiterate, but because his eyes had clouded over a few months ago, and the darkness had overtaken his vision much quicker than he anticipated. He didn't want anyone to know. He walked now instead of driving. He watched old TV shows he had already seen so that he could laugh at the right places. He leaned close to his dinner plate, pretending to cool them off with his breath, but actually smelling each item to identify what he was about to eat. It wasn't an easy life, this cover up of his disability, but it was his and his alone. He did not want to be a burden. He did not want to lose himself.

Frowzy and adduce

Miranda wanted to use my sloppiness as evidence of my apathy. "You can't even be bothered to pick up your boxers," she said. "How could I trust you to pick up our kids?"

She went on these rampages about once a month -- you know. I tried to ride them out, like a week-long storm in which I had no rudder, no sails, no engine, just me in a little dinghy holding on to the sides for dear life. Sometimes you come out a little wetter, a little more beat up than others. This time I didn't come out at all.

"I've had it," she said. For once she wasn't yelling. In fact, she sounded tired, even a little sad. She didn't look it, though. I did.

She left on a Wednesday. She picked up all my clothes before she left. I'm not sure what the message was.

Soiree, obsequies, and ensconced

I was the funeral-- no, at the gallery opening-- no, at a party. What party? I couldn't see anyone's faces. Were these my friends? My family? I didn't remember this place, this night. So why? Why now? Why was I remembering this? Or really, not remembering this? In reality I was lying in bed, dreaming, perhaps sweating and kicking off the covers, but safe. Only felt lost, adrift, vulnerable, because of Guei. Guei had put this memory in my head. Why?

Horripilation and sidereal

They walked down the street in silence, enveloped and embraced by the night. She noticed goosebumps rising on the skin of his arms, and she rubbed her hands up and down to ward them off. He smiled at her, but pulled away. They followed the stars, continuing down the road. She didn't know where they were going or how long it would take them, but she was ready to go anywhere with him.

Olfactory, intimation, and resplendent

Smells like shit, but shines like gold. Sometime truth hurts.

Footless and mot juste

The table was missing one leg. It had been for years, and yet still they did not throw the table out. As if they could not afford to lose even the one thing, broken and unusable though it was. This was how Hua Li's family thought of themselves too: needy, broken, unusable.

Addle, aquiline, and epicure

Claude had made a living from his nose. Literally. A bit hooked like an eagle's -- or a Jew's, his mother sometimes lamented -- Claude's nose had guided him through the finest culinary schools in all of Paris. He could identify any spice from just one whiff. He could tell you how a dish would taste -- too spicy, too sour, just sweet enough, not quite finished -- before taking a single bite. All because of his remarkable nose.

But after the accident, the scents had become muddied, his nose confused. Was that saffron, or sage? Pepper, or parsimmon? He could no longer distinguish one from the other, and he feared what this would mean for his career. No longer a head chef but a critic, how could his opinion be trusted? He was like Monet, painting even as he was going blind, or Beethoven, composing despite his deafness. But could he pull it off, as those gentleman had? Would he go down in the history books, or just go down?

These are the things he tried not to think about as he walked up the path to his daughter's house for dinner.

Gloaming and abate

We drove in silence, of course. I was anxious to see the city skyline, to feel a return to my normal life, my home. He seemed content listening to classic rock and tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. I rolled my eyes whenever he started to hum or sing along -- he could never seem to find the right key -- but the closer we got to the city, the less angry I felt. By the time the sun was setting over the horizon on our left and "Angie" came on the radio, I was singing along with his warbling voice. He smiled and reached over to take my hand. It wasn't exactly an apology, and we hadn't resolved anything, but we both felt better. Isn't that what mattered?

Bivouac and hubris

We waited under the tent for the morning to rise. I don't think either of us slept. I listened to him breathe, a harsh raspy breath that set my already frayed nerves on end. I heard the crickets, and the leaves in the wind, and what sounded like the footsteps of wild animals as they crunched twigs on the ground. I gripped the blanket tighter around my body and wondered if our precautions would really ward off lions and bears. I don't know what he did, but whatever it was, it didn't involve me. His pride prohibited him from apologizing, obviously, but I thought maybe he'd make some small concession. Turn to me in the night, hold my hand, stroke my arm. But no, there was nothing, no reassuring gesture, even though he knew I was scared out of my mind.

In the morning, with a raging headache from the fight and the lack of sleep, I stormed out of the tent to pee, wash my face in the stream, and pack up our camp. He moved slowly, calmly, as if unaffected by me or our surroundings. I always envied him that, his composure.