They sit out on the patio overlooking the marble fountain. Clear and crisp water bubbles and frothes through the polished limestone, shaping something only The Observer understands.
The birds are content today. Merry, even. Their chirps and songs echo all around the grounds. The fresh and strong leaves whistle beneath the light breeze. Everything is very much alive. Mid-July always did boast that aspect of the world.
The two women sit outside in the warmth of early-afternoon in July. The exquisite patio furniture is very comfortable. Four tall chairs, each with armrests and thick cushions on both the seats and backrests. The table is glass-topped, with a deep green edge and legs. The tall, thick green canvas umbrella, forces shade upon them both.
Three platters adorn the table. Each with different treats. One, a dark blue plate, holds intricately sliced fruits. Strawberries, honeydew melon, kiwi, pineapple, watermelon, papaya, passion fruit, blueberries and raspberries, cantaloupe. Small, two-pronged forks are placed around a small bowl of fresh thick cream, centered by the fruit.
The second platter, this one deep red -almost purple, really- holds various pastries. Small round buns, lightly glazed with caramel and topped with flaked-chocolate. Cheese-filled croissants of the lightest possible crust -seeming almost to melt in one's mouth. Muffins that look more like golden clouds with drops of rich chocolate melted into their centres and tops. Cinnamon buns, sticky to the fingers and almost painfully sweet to the palette; some glazed with candied-sugar, others brushed with white chocolate. Small dark truffles, marked with white and milk chocolate, placed around the other items.
The third platter is a deep forest-floor green colour. This final setting holds small finger foods. Three-inch-long breaded sticks, filled with melted mozzarella, cheddar, and Brie cheeses. Battered chicken strips, brushed with honey mustard. Round crackers topped with smoked Gouda and finely sliced ham kolbassa. Grilled chicken breasts, cut into bite-sized pieces, stuffed with strips of smoked ham and goat cheese. Small round balls of chicken koftas surrounding a bowl of lime pickle. Spring rolls filled with pieces of beef and pork, stuffed with bell peppers and sprouts, complete with a soft cucumber dipping sauce.
Four glasses are placed on the table as well -two for each woman. One being a tall crystal wine glass, the other a smaller tumbler. There are also three bottles, and a crystal pitcher, too.
One bottle is a dark blue colour, with a pale label covered in French words; ice wine from Northern Quebec. The second bottle is a clear glass. It has a black label, this time with Italian print; a brilliant red wine from the Hills of the Trasimeno -The Observer's second favourite. The crystal pitcher contains clear, crisp, and fresh water. Small round icecubes float about on the surface of the still water. The third bottle is clear -more than half empty- with a white label. The words are English, save the name itself: Te Bheag. The Gaelic dubbing for this particular brand of unchilfiltered Scotch. This is The Observer's absolute favourite.
"You're not eating," says her guest, dipping one of the spring rolls into the cucumber dip and taking a bite.
The Observer raises a single eyebrow, before taking a sip from her tumbler, filled with deep amber drink. She allows the Scotch to rest on her tongue for a moment before feeling it run along her throat, heating her entire body.
"You should eat something," says her guest, finishing off the spring roll, and taking a sip of her golden ice wine. "Damn this is good!"
The Observer smiles, lighting a cigarette and inhaling long and slowly. The blue smoke rises from the tip of the smoldering white stick, curling into the air and climbing as far as possible before being obliterated by the slight breeze.
"You should really eat something," continues the guest, placing her glass back on the table. "There's no way I can manage to stuff all this down my throat."
"There's no way either of us can manage to finish half of this," says The Observer calmly, her voice silken as she places her burning cigarette into the varnished ashtray to her right.
"Then why in the name of God did you have so much made?"
With a small shrug of the shoulders, The Observer answers in that same silken and calm voice, "I've got to keep my people busy, don't I?"
"Listen, you don't have to do all this. I mean, you don't have to play the cool and composed writer for me. I know that you're upset about what happened to--"
"Do not start with that, Leigh." The silken voice is drowned beneath a deep anger.
"Kay, listen to me," presses Leigh, turning in her chair to face her friend. "We all know what happened. We're all worried sick about you out here. Mi--"
Again, The Observer slices through the words of her friend. "Drop it! Don't bring this up again! I told you once that I would be fine. Well here I am! It's been two years and I've gotten over it. So drop this bullshit about my needing to talk about it!"
"It's been two years, Kay," begins Leigh softly, "And you still haven't come home."
"This is my home."
"This is not your home. This isn't even your country. You aren't a citizen here. You never were."
"What's your point?"
"Why are you fighting for them? Why are you fighting a lost battle?"
Kay says nothing as her grip around her tumbler tightens, the blue smoke from her burning cigarette not making it so far as the edge of the ashtray before being scattered by the breeze.
"Kerridwen." Leigh's voice is soft as she speaks, draping her arms over the chair. "You watched your wife get slaughtered in the street. You can't get over that."
Kay still says nothing as she takes a long breath from her cigarette, lighting a second one, and ignoring the voice of her friend.
"Why fight a losing battle here? This place is already gone. Come home and help us."
"It's not lost here," answers Kerridwen softly, staring at the fountain. "I can't leave here. I can't leave until we've won."
"There is no winning here," presses Leigh. "It's already a lost cause. Fighting here is nothing."
"I have friends here that I can't leave. They are my family now."
"And we're not? The people who stood by you in the worst of your life?"
"What the hell am I supposed to do? Just disappear and watch this place burn?"
"Better than being caught in the flames."
"My life ended here. I'm not leav--"
"Exactly! Your life here ended when Mikaela was gunned-down in the street. Your life ended when you ploughed a gun down your husband's throat and pulled the trigger. Kerridwen, your life here doesn't exist anymore. Come home and help us win this fucking war."
"I won't leave this place until it's safe. I will never leave this place."
"You aren't fighting for them anymore. You're fighting for someone you can't help."
Kay's voice was, like Leigh's, becoming more and more harsh. Her anger, normally controlled and completely subdued, began to rise quickly. "Fuck you! All right? Fuck you, Leigh! I know I'm fighting for Mikaela. I know I can't win. I know I'm just avoiding being pumped full of fucking bullets by those monsters! I don't fucking care! I'm staying here because I'm needed. I'm needed here more than I am back home. And you all know it! Everyone with us fucking knows it! I'm the only one who can get the weapons here. And there's no fucking way in hell that I'm leaving." She turned and stared her friend in the eyes, "Either you accept it and help us, or you'll all end up the way it is here."
Before Leigh could reply, six women stepped onto the scene.
"Everything all right here?" asked one with red hair.
"Everything is fine," answered Kay, not pulling her eyes from those of her friend.
"Oh-kay," said the woman again. "Uhm, we need to talk."
Leigh looked over the six women. She sighed and looked back to Kay. "The Brits have sent us five full loads of assault rifles." She looked back to the six women for a moment, before continuing to Kay. "We only need two."
Kerridwen stood and motioned for Leigh to do the same. "Leigh, I'd like you to meet the COUP."
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