Free Please Don't Go by Eric Dimbleby Page B

consumed a stuffed portabella mushroom before, the strange odor that it gave off smelled enchanting. A leathery, dirty smell filled the air, and Zephyr could not explain why that bizarre mixture appealed to him.
    “ The tools of the trade,” Rattup informed him, handing over a knife and fork. “And something to wash it down,” he added, handing over a glass of his pitch-perfect lemonade, a subtle reminder of the imploding crystal pitcher from their previous encounter.
    “ Thank you,” Zephyr replied, quite thankful for Rattup’s overwhelming generosity. Zephyr leaned forward in his slightly rocking armchair, as did Rattup in his chestnut couch, which seemed to absorb him like a sponge when he became overly settled in it.
    There was a dim silence as they ate their meals. The fire, born anew since his last visitation, was roaring at their side, tickling the mesh iron curtain that covered it with undulating flames. It warmed Zephyr all over and made him feel at home, lovely in his shell of comfort, further deepening his forget of what had transpired after their last fireside meal. The chill of the morning had now fully escaped the confines of his rattling bones, and he was grateful for that consolation.
    “ So are you enjoying the book? Let me preface that by saying that the kid gloves, as they say, are off. If you loathe my work, do not be afraid to tear it to shreds. I’ve come far enough that it no longer hurts my feelings. I’m a big boy, as they say,” Rattup half-lied. His emotional tie to his writing would always exist at some level, that was undeniable. A writer never abandoned the love for his own words, and when the community at large (specifically his most intelligent and lauded critics, they of the pipe-smoking and brandy-sipping and I do declare variety) disagreed... well, that was pain incarnate. “Strike me down where I stand!” he roared with a grin creeping across his face. He sliced into his baked mushroom and shoveled a nub into his mouth, as if to tell Zephyr that he was done talking, for the moment. There were social cues that Rattup employed regularly, and one, Zephyr decided, must only be observant enough to detect them.
    Zephyr nodded, placed his fork on his plate, and finished chewing his most recent bite of mushroom. “Okay,” he began. “I’ve only read the first part of your story. It was sort of a rough week since I had two papers due. Simultaneously . So I only got a start to it. But I like it.” He paused, reconsidering for a moment, adding, “I like it a lot.”
    “ You lie,” Rattup said, his face turning to a mushy wrinkled stone. He sipped his lemonade, as though he needed to wash the rotten taste from his fetid tongue.
    “ I don’t!” Zephyr replied, his voice cracking at the defensiveness he could not hide. “Your writing style is very captive. Very visual, as though the city is a character in and of itself. Is that what you intended?” He studied Rattup’s face for some tenderness after his bitter knee-jerk reaction to the young man’s initial analysis.
    “ I did. I’m glad you saw that. I’ve always done that. The room, the city, the town, the store, the restaurant. These are characters that live and breathe as you and I do. The cobble stoned streets and the faceless people. They are integral. And you dare not ever forget this,” Rattup explained. As he spoke these words, Zephyr looked about the room they were in, practicing the strategy at the very moment itself, as if he were subconsciously exemplifying his understanding to Charles.
    The walls looked as though they had not been painted in decades. He noticed thin fissures in the paint, creeping like tributaries through the room. He glanced down at the dark stained wooden floors. Pumpkin boards, by the look of them. Three summers previous, Zephyr had worked for a general contractor. One of their jobs had been to refinish a pumpkin board floor, and Rattup’s looked to be a near clone to that contract, but