2019-12-16 - Back from NYC

Halfway through December, on a rare clear night. It turns out no clouds mean that there's no insulation against the earth losing what daytime warmth there was, and thus it is fucking freezing. There'll be frost on grass and windowpanes by dawn. In the sitting room of Mallard House, Itzhak and Ignacio make some noise, like they used to in the old days. Itzhak's standing, tapping his boot to the beat against the worn floorboards, playing his fiddle, eyebrows popping up and down along with his bowing.

Ignacio has been trying something new and that's, after his trip BACK to NYC taking note of what he missed int eh deli and has been trying to recreate it here in Gray Harbor. This is hard without a proper Jewish Deli(tm). Still if they're going to kick in the garage he's going to make something to make it feels like told times. Sitting on the edge of the kitchen chair he pauses to take a bite, lifting the sandwich. "Chag Sameach man. That's still is going on when I checked the calendar. I missed this. I'm glad we made time for this. How you been holding up, man?"

A real sandwich is sour rye piled with thick-cut pastrami and hot, tangy mustard. No mayo, get outta here with that mayo stuff! Well, there's no pastrami like from the famous delis of the Lower East Side here, at least not until Iggy figures out how to make some, so Itzhak is making do with roast beef. At least there's a proper fukkin' dill pickle or three, crisp and garlicky and so sour your saliva glands beg for mercy.

Swinging his fiddle off his shoulder and setting it in the case, Itzhak yawns. "Chag Sameach to you too, that better not have been a sandwich pun." He slumps into a chair and stretches his neck and forearms. "Ehhhh. Who cares about me. How YOU been holdin' up?"

Ignacio looks ever so please with himself. He chews and wobbles his head C'mon that's clever as hell and takes another bite. How's he doing? Shoulder rises and falls. It's been six months and in that six months they have really been breaking him of saying everything's fine. "Just... Lot of change. Scary ya know? Like Finch and I? Better than good man." There's a but. He takes a deep breath, and shakes his head, "been rough. Leg's been, ya know, it'... my new normal but it's been kinda inflamed from my second toe all the way into my lower back and, ya know Finch does what she can it's just ... hard man. The wants there. The wanting to fix shit on my own is... stupid."

Eyebrows elevate with a slight shake of his head and he eat his sandwich only to mumble around it. He pauses and rolls his eyes upward like he's the world's biggest idiot and continues to eat letting his mind fill in the gaps. "Getting out of the mindset of needing my independence to- who? Myself? It's kinda bullshit and I'm just really trying to do anything to not think about it. Just... family situations' kinda fucked right now so I'm trying to do what I can for Finch, so... Kinda trying to focus on what I do have instead of what in't or I can't right now and it's a lot harder than it looks on paper."

That is a lot more like the kind of answer Itzhak wants when he asks these things. More than anything else, that proves to him that Iggy really is recovering, and that? Like Isolde would say, that is 'a good thing'. But per the tough-guy rules, he can't just say so. ...Except, as he listens, tapping a beat on his lean thigh, not looking at Ignacio but staring at some interesting streaks in the wood floors, he does just say so. The old rules of the neighborhood streets don't seem that important anymore. Particularly not while he and Iggy are jamming and eating and doing the things they used to do.

What's important? All of a sudden, Itzhak can answer that question. At least, right here, right now. New answer tomorrow.

"Shit, Naishka. You been through the wringer, I just fuckin' bet it's rough." Itzhak gets his own sandwich, and hesitates, feeling the tickle of a kythe. He finds himself holding approximately half an Imperial ton of roast beef on rye, gazing blankly at the food while he picks up the mental phone.

His mind is massive fractal constructs and an oceanscape dividing what he shares from what he doesn't share. Fractal tendrils unfurl to gather Ignacio in. <<Still not used to you doing this.>> His mental 'voice' is, of course, a violin singing.