"You have pancakes." Sierra looks from Echo's plate to her own empty one. "I had them too. I like pancakes."
"Pancakes taste good," agrees Victor.
"You can't always have them," says Sierra. "You have to eat other foods so you can be your best."
Echo looks down. "I like pancakes," she says. "I like eggs."
They look at her. There are no eggs on the table. There are pancakes.
Somebody is making pancakes. Or somebody has made them. Somebody who isn't here now. "Where do they come from?"
"Food comes from in there," Sierra tells her kindly, pointing. "They bring it out."
"Who makes it?" Echo is thinking of a woman who is tall and with very long hair tied back, standing in a corner with something in her hand that sizzles. The woman is making pancakes. She is smiling and saying strange words like "school" and "late" and "work" and "commute".
Echo looks around for her, but she is not here - she has never been here. But Echo has always been here. Only one thing can be true. Does the woman even exist?
"They bring it out," Sierra says again, trying to help Echo understand. "From over there."
She's pointing at a door. Someone behind the door is making the food. It's hard to think about that, but when she concentrates, Echo knows that people don't just disappear when you can't see them. They keep existing on the other side of the doors. They go somewhere else. There is a somewhere else to go to.
And that woman, the one who Echo thinks has been making pancakes, she must be somewhere else. In a place that isn't here, in a time that isn't now.
Thinking this way frustrating and uncomfortable, like a bandage she's not allowed to take off. Echo is almost relieved when Victor smiles at her and offers,
"I like pancakes."
"Yes," says Sierra. "And syrup. But you shouldn't eat them all the time."
"You have to be your best," Echo says, letting the confusing thoughts dissipate, moving her fork around, drawing patterns in the sticky syrup. "But I like pancakes."
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Date: 2010-05-09 08:18 pm (UTC)"Pancakes taste good," agrees Victor.
"You can't always have them," says Sierra. "You have to eat other foods so you can be your best."
Echo looks down. "I like pancakes," she says. "I like eggs."
They look at her. There are no eggs on the table. There are pancakes.
Somebody is making pancakes. Or somebody has made them. Somebody who isn't here now. "Where do they come from?"
"Food comes from in there," Sierra tells her kindly, pointing. "They bring it out."
"Who makes it?" Echo is thinking of a woman who is tall and with very long hair tied back, standing in a corner with something in her hand that sizzles. The woman is making pancakes. She is smiling and saying strange words like "school" and "late" and "work" and "commute".
Echo looks around for her, but she is not here - she has never been here. But Echo has always been here. Only one thing can be true. Does the woman even exist?
"They bring it out," Sierra says again, trying to help Echo understand. "From over there."
She's pointing at a door. Someone behind the door is making the food. It's hard to think about that, but when she concentrates, Echo knows that people don't just disappear when you can't see them. They keep existing on the other side of the doors. They go somewhere else. There is a somewhere else to go to.
And that woman, the one who Echo thinks has been making pancakes, she must be somewhere else. In a place that isn't here, in a time that isn't now.
Thinking this way frustrating and uncomfortable, like a bandage she's not allowed to take off. Echo is almost relieved when Victor smiles at her and offers,
"I like pancakes."
"Yes," says Sierra. "And syrup. But you shouldn't eat them all the time."
"You have to be your best," Echo says, letting the confusing thoughts dissipate, moving her fork around, drawing patterns in the sticky syrup. "But I like pancakes."