Hot Chocolate
“I should try to find an inn to bed down for the night,” I tell Atlanta through the paper that we use as conversation means, as I notice how late it is and how droopy she looks, after what feels like candelmarks long exploring the arts of “origami.”
She shakes her head. “Children without adults cannot rent a hotel room. Just stay here. I will tell my mother. She will not mind.”
She drags me to the kitchen before I can write even half of a protesting sentence.
I stop protesting when she puts the mouth of a “plastic bag” under my nose, and I inhale a fragrance similar to but sharper than the earlier “ice cream.”
“C-H-O-C-O-L-A-T-E,” she spells out, then signs, “Hot. Warm. Cold.” She shows me a few other ingredients, afterwards… and grins unashamedly when I accuse her of trying to bribe me to stay.
I never experienced a non-relative persisting to keep me company before. It feels… nice. Odd, though, and rather unnerving. I feel open and vulnerable, like rarely before.
And still, I stay, if only to try my hand at making variations of a “chocolate” drink together with my odd – if nice – new acquaintance.