‘Did you or Tessa book in a shop or anything?’
Nash shrugs.‘No, in the before-times I just figured I’d go to the grocery store when I got here.’
‘We don’t have a greengrocer’s in the village,’ Christopher says, standing up.His knees click as he stands.‘Oh,sorry, you mean a supermarket, don’t you?Here, a greengrocer’s just sells fruits and vegetables.I think there’s one a few towns over.’
‘Thank you for that thrilling translation,’ Nash snarks.‘I’m excited to get a cultural exchange thrown in with the accommodation.’
To his surprise, this prompts a very tiny smile in the corner of Christopher’s mouth.Apparently hedoeshave a sense of humour.It must be buried deep inside him along with everything else the British repress.
‘If it helps, I don’t mind missing out on the leftovers and sad bags of salad you must have thrown out,’ he adds.
A huge gale rattles the windows and the lights above them flicker just for a second.‘I think the storm is trying to tell you not to look a gift horse in the mouth,’ says Christopher.
‘I’m sorry, can you repeat that completely ridiculous sentence you just said to me?’
‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth?Is it that weird a saying?’
‘English really is another language over here.’
‘I suppose it has the same meaning as “beggars can’t be choosers”.’
‘Oh yes, an equally complicated phrase.I can absolutely see why you chose an idiom like “gift horse” over that.’
He is almost certain that Christopher shuts his eyes for a few seconds as if he’s counting for patience.‘We’ve got a few bits in here, and the tin cupboard is full, so we won’t go hungry tonight at least,’ Christopher announces a little too cheerily.
Nash feels a little thrill that he’s annoyed him.‘Tinned stuff is British cuisine at its finest, isn’t it?Sardines and cold baked beans by candlelight?’
‘It’s not that dire.We still have power after all.’
And with that, as if in answer from the gods, the lights all go out.The fridge makes an ominous groan.
‘Youhadto say it, didn’t you?’mutters Nash, turning on the torch on his phone.
‘Christ.’Christopher tentatively walks to the window and looks out across the town.‘Everyone’s power is out.’
With a deep sigh, Christopher sets down his list onto the counter and impressively digs out a fresh box of taper candles and matches from a drawer.
‘That was alarmingly well prepared.This is very Boy Scouts of America,’ Nash comments.
‘We just call them Scouts here.’
‘Fine, verygolden boyof you,’ Nash says, lighting the way through the cramped apartment to the living room with his phone torch.Christopher follows with a candle holder, which he sets down on the coffee table and wedges the tapered candles into.It takes a couple of matches to light all the candles as a rogue breeze from somewhere seems to be snuffing them out.
There’s nothing else to do but sit back down on the couch together.This time, they are bathed in the low golden light of the candles, and the sounds of the snowstorm.
Still, it’s eerily quiet – where are the cars and neighbours and planes and signs of goddamn life?Maybe I’m dead, Nash thinks.That could explain it.Though if he had died and gone to hell, they could have found a better torture than being cooped up with an awkward giraffe man.
‘What now?’Nash says, wanting to fill the void with anything.
Christopher doesn’t reply straight away.But eventually, quietly, he says, ‘We just wait.’
He says it so simply, like this is just a normal occurrence.
‘Great.’
‘There’s nothing to be done.Sometimes it goes out when the weather is bad.Hopefully it’ll be fixed by the morning.Maybe later because of the weather.’
‘Wow, I really am in the sticks.’
