It was why, she supposed, her grandmother told her about The Tower of Babel. Then, much later on when, there were no TVs in their house anymore, it was why her grandmother taught her how to paint.
When Tyler awoke from her dream, her first thoughts were of her grandmother. She rolled out of bed and swore she could smell the scent of eggs cooking in the kitchen from her grandmother's home recipe. Tyler remembered the way her grandmother would keep chickens so she'd always have breakfast and then the remaining eggs for tempura. After eating in the morning, they'd paint in the afternoon, and listen to music at night. Somewhere in there, they'd also find time to sleep.
Tyler gathered her housecoat around her body and wandered through her empty apartment. She paused on each threshold and waited. Definitely empty. The rooms contained the sound of silence―a black deeper than darkness itself. She tapped her hands along the wall, creating the purple from her dream again and disrupting the sudden hole of memory she'd fall into.
She remembered the other parts of her dream. The man and woman at the table, opening their mouths to finally talk about the ocean. The words from the poem etched across her mind. The rain had turned to flood waters and piled up outside their door. Fish with iridescent scales bashed up against the glass. The man and woman watched it, then took out paper―real paper―and wrote down the lines from the poem they had said aloud.
"Krish-krish," Tyler spoke into her empty apartment. She stopped tapping her fingers against the wall. "Krish-krish."
She smiled. She could see and feel the waves again. So much so, she crawled back into bed, and tried to complete her dream.
When she awoke in the morning with nothing but the taste of salt in her mouth, she figured this was good enough.
*~*~*
"This word," she said, pointing at savagala. "I know it. Right?"
"Right. That's part of our word for 'savage.' English borrows a lot. There are traces of words in Arabic, Welsh, Latin, German, and pretty much all the Romance languages. I'm still not quite sure what this is," Josh said, referring to the original poem. "If it's a pidgin of something already established or a completely new language. I think it's brand new, but my supervisor wants me to 'dig a little deeper.'" Josh made air quotes, then shrugged.
"I hope it's brand new. We'll have to pay attention more that way," Tyler said. "Are they calling themselves savages in the poem?"
"No, definitely not." Josh shook his head. "Not by our meaning, anyway. Chances are that English adapted that word because we saw this tribe and wanted to distance ourselves in some way. But these people―they were advanced. They had weapons; they had technology. Look."
Josh gestured to the poem with more spaces filled in. The clockwork section from before had been changed to reflect a more accurate rendering of their technological skills. She thought of her dream and the outlets the two people had on their walls but kept quiet about it. What kind of research was a dream she had? Besides, Tyler was still drawn to the word savagala. She had barely started her shift at the library before Josh had greeted her with his progress, and this section had pulled her right in. The word was all yellow to her, barely visible on the white page unless she focused. When Josh spoke the word aloud, it sounded golden.
She wanted to tell him about what she saw, but instead asked, "Why do you want to solve this?"
"Because if this civilization really has been lost, then I want to see if we can learn from their mistakes. And I don't want them to be remembered as savages. That's gross."
"It is. I still can't believe you did this all last night. It's so advanced. This isn't the kind of stuff you find on the network, either. How did you solve it all?"
He looked around, then leaned forward with a devious grin. "Can I trust you?"
"Yeah, of course."
"I have some books stashed. Paper, too."
"You stole them?" She was smiling through her authoritative tone. Josh mirrored her expression.
"I liberated them. Books shouldn't be locked up like this, even if we can get most information online. I know it's for protection but… You don't keep your favourite things locked away." He paused, as if realizing he was getting on a bit of a soapbox. "I'm sorry, I'll bring them back. I just reached the limit that I could have on hold and I didn't want to wait."
"I can add more for you. I'll do that when I go back to work. After we talk."
"Really?" Josh said, gleeful. "Thanks. But I don't know if I can stop myself now. I'm babbling too much without a real plot."
"That's okay. It's interesting. I want to know more about the translation, especially since I don't know this language."
"No one really knows it―not anymore. It's a dead language."
The term―and tone―struck Tyler. She thought of letters piled high in a grave. "But if you're working with it, it's not dead."
"I'm performing the autopsy, then. If we can spin it that way," he said, smiling again. She liked that smiled; she wanted to reach out and touch his teeth like piano keys. "But I guess if you're here too, I feel less like I'm rambling and more like a conversation."
"Yes, exactly. Do you..." Tyler paused. She could see Crispin walking around still. "Do you want to continue this conversation later, then?"
"Sure. Yes. Definitely. Coffee? Or a meal?"
"I like food. Maybe we can go to a place with big enough tables, so there can be room for both us and the poem. So the place will have to the temperature controlled, too."
"Right. I know a couple places. I like this idea. You're done at noon?"
When she nodded, Josh wrote down the information. She was struck by how sweet this act was. How could they really miss one another in library like this? She thanked him again and went back to work.
When she walked behind him fifteen minutes later, more of the poem had been filled in:
"The Waves of "
our people sang.
Mermaids breathe under black skies; fish gills.
Not us. We build and rebuild. Scissors-like
dancing legs.
fighting with waves:
So we began to sing with the waves.
Do not name what you don't understand.
Our people dance over strange land,
we can't meet in the night to sing ―
but the waves still go on:
CHAPTER THREE
"Before we go on," Josh said as he placed his hands around his coffee. "I need to tell you something. Personal, this time. Not about the poem."
"The poem seems pretty personal," Tyler said. They had been filling in the blanks and talking more about krish-krish as they ate sandwiches from one of the local vendors. This was a black market place, she knew from the way no one batted an eye at them having paper and the gruff manner they were served coffee without pass codes required for water allotment. She figured Josh was about to tell her he used to be addicted to augmented reality, or the sun-sickness tablets that had been a craze a few years ago; he had the open eyes and trembling hands of a confessor.
"It is, I guess. It's my PhD, and I really want to do well. I suppose all poetry is personal, even if it feels more like a memory I'm not sure I have anymore." He paused, as if he were onto sometime. His hands went for his pen and he scribbled down a quick note she couldn't read. "You ever hear about that? Evolutionary memory? Like we know not to do things for specific reasons?"
"I have. It's an interesting concept."
"But not a reality?"
Tyler let out a sigh. She took a sip of her drink, then leaned forward. "Look around us. How long have we been living like this?"
"The solar panels? The desert? Ever since I can remember."
"Me too. But we know there's more, right? We have relatives that remember The Flood. Global warming. The ozone layer hole. Those buzz words from the archives. And then there were the dinosaurs. I know that's a huge leap, but it's there. It's... a pattern. All I'm saying is that if we have evolutionary memory, why do we keep screwing up?"
"We don't just screw
up. We also rebuild."
"Yes, of course. Technology and progress and all that. It's a bumper sticker, though. Progress is something to make people feel good for destroying the planet in the first place. What we know is falling and feedback, I think." She sipped her coffee. This is how you completely blow dates, Tyler. This is how you screw everything up. "But maybe I'm a cynic."
"No. Or maybe, I don't know." Josh smiled again. "Either way, I think we're talking about the same thing. I like the idea of evolutionary memory because even if we keep screwing up, there's always something else that's pulling us towards survival."
"Sure. We can agree on that, maybe. But that's not what you wanted to tell me, is it?"
Josh stared into his coffee. "It kind of is, I guess. I'm different than most guys. I'm transgender. Do you know what that means?"
"I think so." Tyler didn't know if she was surprised by this information or not. In some way, parts of Josh made sense―the small hands, round face, the short stature―but at the same time, other parts were just there. Josh wasn't a complex system that made him a man; he was skin and bone that made him Josh. "But do you want to explain what it means to you?"
Josh's eyes lit up, and that smile crept back onto his face. "Sure. I was born as something else with the typical female parts. But I never liked them, always wanted to be different. I think I wanted to believe in past lives so badly because I thought I was on this long, long continuum of all these men and the reason I ended up in the body I was in was a huge cosmic mistake. I wasn't supposed to be a girl. I was supposed to be a guy and carry on my legacy."
"But you are a guy now," she said it like it wasn't a question, and Josh deemed to appreciate it.
"I am. I've transitioned. But I wanted to tell you because I think this is a date. And if it is, then you should know about… this."
"I should know what, exactly?" Tyler grinned. She knew Josh was referring to sex. How could he not be? That was always―and still was―the common go-to when talking about transgender people. Everyone wanted to mentally undress them and pin them down against a wall to discover what was underneath.
But discovery was boring to Tyler, and she needed him to know.
"I don't care, Josh," she added when he had gone quiet. "About what's under your blue sweater or what's between your legs. I really don't, but at the same time, I do care because you care. My grandmother once told me that you can't forget something until you know it. So thank you for telling me, but I'm going to forget now. Does that... am I making sense now?"
"Yeah. This is fine. You get it a lot more than other people. Wow." Josh let out a laugh, bright and violet. "Man, this is great. Are you trans too or something? I've never had anyone get this before so quickly."
Tyler sighed. She debated, over and over, whether or not to tell him. Then she decided it couldn't hurt. "No, I'm not trans. But I have something called synaesthesia. Have you heard of it?"
Josh shook his head. He wrote down the word. "I can look it up later, if you want?"
"No, it's okay. I'll tell you." Tyler pulled her cup of coffee close, and started to talk. "You ever hear the story of The Tower of Babel? Well, it's kind of like that..."
*~*~*
That night, he waited for her after she locked up the library. She walked him to her apartment, the Day-Glo steps making shadows dance across his face. They weren't talking much, but she felt his hand in hers and she could hear the distinct colour-change of his breathing. He followed her down the hallway to her apartment door, then asked to come inside.
"Of course," she said.
When she kissed him, she saw stars. White riots of colour burst with each moan. His hands on her waist felt heavy inside of her, like an anchor dropping down from shore, and when he kissed her neck and slid a leg between her thighs, she heard the waves of the ocean. She opened her eyes with a sigh, saying his name in a breath. He kissed her skin, and she wondered if he tasted salt.
The hallway was so, so dark. The door to the apartment was shut and no light came through. She felt lost inside deep space again, like the night before.
"Bedroom, bedroom," she said. She flicked on the lights of her small apartment, her cat meowing in neon-green, and Josh's hands the shape of an isosceles triangle on her back. It's always like this, she thought. Sex and the sensory overload. She could control and filter out her body in her everyday life, but now it was too much. She had had too much coffee―then later on, too much to drink. She felt leaky, like she'd spill all over the room and there would be no one who could make sense of her.
"Whoa," Josh called out, grabbing Tyler as she tripped in her doorway. He held her against his chest, curling her dark hair away from her forehead. "You okay? Dizzy?"
"I'm fine. Just drank too much."
"When?"
"Crispin keeps some stuff hidden away. He thinks he's good at keeping secrets, but I know."
Josh laughed. "Are you drunk?"
She shook her head. Waves of colour morphed around her.
"Let me rephrase," Josh spoke again. "Are you too drunk?"
"No. I just..." She grabbed her temples. She heard cymbals crashing and couldn't trace it. Josh guided her to the bed, where she noticed her blouse was half-undone. His collared shirt was unbuttoned, his white t-shirt visible underneath.
"Where's your bathroom?" he asked.
She pointed to the door next to her bed. He walked inside, flicked on a light, and programmed a number into the keypad by the tap. She guessed it was his own password, meaning that he was putting his supply for the day in the plastic cup by her sink. When he handed over the water, she smiled.
"You didn't have to."
"It's okay. Drink." He folded his arms and waited.
"Thank you," she said after draining it. "I think I needed to pause. Slow down."
"That's fine." Josh sat with her on the messy bedspread. He kissed her shoulder, where her bra strap showed, then placed his chin there. "We don't have to do anything tonight."
"Oh, but I want to."
Josh laughed. He finished un-tucking the rest of his collared shirt, then gripped the edge of his t-shirt. "Is this okay? Can I take it off?"
Tyler nodded slowly.
Josh slipped the shirt off and tossed it onto her floor, adding to the already mixed colour palette of clothing. She saw his scars then. Two long lines bisecting under his nipples. They were pink, healed away and forgotten about until moments like this. She ran her fingers along them and marvelled at the texture. She touched the scar under his chin, then back down to his chest. Different textures, different skins, different stories and sounds in her ears. She nestled closer to him, and he placed an arm around her. She realized she was ogling him like he was in a lab, and blush berated her cheeks for being so foolish.
"Does it hurt?" she asked. "Or feel good when I touch?"
"No pain. It's kind of just there. I actually don't have feeling in my nipples. They had to graft them back on, so they're really just decorative at this point."
She touched a dark red nub, then looked up to meet his eyes. He stared at her, pupils dilated. Afraid. She could hear the sadness in his gaze, then how it tipped in relief when she remained still and calm. A small tremble of lips, a flicking of his blue-green eyes. She wanted to narrate everything in that moment, write it down and speaking it aloud so she could show him all the colours she saw. How she was different, too.
Instead, she kissed him again. He groaned this time, letting himself go. Their tongues moved together, creating a new spoken word between them.
"Josh, it's okay," she said after a few moments of kissing. He had kept his hands on her shoulders, her neck, as if afraid to feel anything below her collar bones. "I'm not drunk. I know what I'm doing."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She pressed their lips together, hoping he couldn't taste the alcohol anymore. Her head swam a bit, but she knew she was fine. That an hour, a day, a month later, she'd still want this right now. "Yeah, I'm fine. Touch me."
Josh shud
dered again, trying to muffle his moans. He kissed her hard, teeth nipping, before his fingers pushed back the fabric of her blouse. She cheered him on in her head, not letting any sound but small moans escape her mouth. When he cupped her chest, he pressed his palms over her breasts like he was feeling the skin underneath. Her heart. She took off the rest of her shirt, her bra, and soon they were skin to skin. Not quite mirrored, but good, she thought. Not fitting together like a perfect puzzle piece, but blending blue and green like the waves.
"Can I...?" he asked as he kissed her neck. His hands were on her pants, around the belt loops, begging them to come off.
Tyler nodded now, no longer shaky. She framed his face with her hands, and pressed a kiss to his mouth. "Yeah. Go for it. It's what I want."
He smiled. The fabric scraped down her legs, along with his lips and teeth. He took off her pants, her underwear, and then gingerly removed her socks before glancing at her full body on the bed.
"You're beautiful," he said as he kissed down her body yet again. He pressed his palms into her thighs, separating them, revealing her to him. She leaned back on her bed and allowed him to explore her, feeling drunk with power and attention. His breath was hot against her thighs, then, as he kissed them, his tongue was a persistent force that slid over to her folds.
"Fuck," she uttered. He slid his arm around her waist, steadying her body as he licked her clit again. And again. He anchored his body to hers and continued to taste and explore with his tongue, then fingers. He slipped two inside of her, rocking them back and forth as he coaxed more and more moans out of her. Tyler bit her fist as he spread her lips, then licked around her clit again.
What do I taste like? she wondered. She wanted to ask him, but instead, she tugged on his shoulders.
"You okay?" he asked, looking up from between her legs. "Not too much?"
Falling and Feedback Page 2
