Silver / clay

⊱ 27 ⊰

"It's not the most important thing in the world, I know, but I need to do it."

Caleb sighed quietly in response. He pressed his back against the warm brick wall. The sun was out, but a bitter breeze swept through the alley, dragging with it the scents of urbanisation, of people.

He turned his nose away from the stench. "Why?"

"I want to live my own life," said Marcus, still with a name tag attached to his fawn work uniform. "So I guess I'm doing it for me."

Caleb shook his head. He didn't know how often Marcus had met with Amala, how far along on their journey they were, but this was the complete opposite attitude needed. He felt protective of her, not that she needed it, and it was difficult not to get worked up over any injustice claiming her scalp. At the same time, this wasn't his journey and, as she mentioned, didn't impact at all on his own worship.

"Do you know much about other cultures?" he said, stepping lightly.

"Other cultures?"

"Have you travelled?" said Caleb.

"Oh yeah, during my gap year I spent a week trawling through Beijing, Ho Chi Minh, That Luang, plus a few other destinations."

"You gave the impression you hadn't eaten rice for a long time," said Caleb.

"Hotel food," said Marcus. "They have burgers and chips and anything else you could want. Oh, but I did try it out, after we spoke. It's...OK."

Caleb tasted the blandness in his own throat, made all the sweeter for what it represented, for the sacrifices he made at the altar of conqueror. "But you were able to imbue their culture, when you visited China and Vietnam?"

"To be honest, most people around me were other tourists. I didn't really engage much with the locals."

A few people walked past the alley without glancing sidewise, focussed on their own path, with their own thoughts and worries.

Caleb watched them slide by. "Here, like most western countries, we have a certain way we codify our laws, how we live our lives, everything really, where the individual forms the basic unit. It's individual autonomy and responsibility and freedoms that we value. But in many other places they think family first, community first, others first. Life, for them, is about the us, not the I."

"You think I need to give back more?" said Marcus. "I volunteer at a not-for-profit, writing up simple contracts whenever they need it."

It was getting worse. This meant yet more time he couldn't devote to Amala.

"That's not exactly..." said Caleb. He tried a different tack. "What do you feel when you donate your time?"

Marcus shrugged. "I don't really think about it. It's just something I should do. My folks always harp on about giving back, they're the ones that put me in touch."

"So it's fair to say there's no emotional connection?"

"I'm not heartless," said Marcus, subconsciously pulling his arms up to protect his torso.

"No, no," said Caleb. "Exactly. I know you aren't. So when you do get those feelings, it must be your body telling you that you've found your home, that this is what you must spend all your energies toward."

"I suppose," said Marcus. There wasn't much conviction in his voice, but neither was there protest. "Hey, are they looking at us?"

Caleb followed his eye-line. A man and woman leant on a railing just beyond the alley, poking at their lunch. Their eyes took turns to rest on Caleb or his new friend. The behaviour seemed a little odd.

"They think we're druggies, trading drugs," said Marcus, adding a chortle.

Caleb sensed the thrill in his words. "Do you think so?" He tapped his chin in thought.

The man spoke to the woman who immediately shot a glance Caleb's way. It sent shivers down his spine, far more than the cold breeze. His own hand then jumped at a touch. He looked down and saw a brown paper bag scraping his skin.

Marcus kept his eyes on anything but Caleb, a light smirk escaping unavoidably. "Pretend it's drugs," he hissed, knocking the empty bag against Caleb's side.

"There are far more important things than drugs," said Caleb, not taking the bait. "And far more important people than you or I."