Post by thearchivist on Oct 9, 2018 18:49:42 GMT -8
Luka couldn't understand why his suggestion would put Mr. Gainsborough in such a state, but his lurking doubts dissolved when the man appeared to mull it over and, soon, as if struck by an abrupt realization, backpedaled on his protestations. Luka was ready to happily confirm their arrangement, but broke off when Mr. Gainsborough shushed him and executed a surprisingly familiar gesture. And then, sure enough, there it was.
"Vodka!" he gasped with delight, clapping his hands together before practically propelling himself forward to inspect the bottle. "Wow, I didn't think...thank you, I didn't realize you'd asked about it!" He hoped his thanks weren't premature; the bottle looked old, and even though he knew vodka never went bad, he'd been taught a bottle open long enough could still spell disaster for the palate. "May I...?" He took up the bottle and turned it over in his hands, sniffing the contents as Mr. Gainsborough set out the glasses. The liquid itself still looked clear, and while it was too much to hope that it had been made in Poland (the label was faded and illegible), it did smell like rye vodka. Close enough to make this place feel like home, if only for the time it took to enjoy one glass. He passed the bottle over and contained his urge to wriggle in happy anticipation as the other man poured. His parents had allowed him to drink for a handful of years, but only recently had he decided he rather liked the taste, and wasn't just forcing himself to drink it to feel more grown up.
"Vodka!" he gasped with delight, clapping his hands together before practically propelling himself forward to inspect the bottle. "Wow, I didn't think...thank you, I didn't realize you'd asked about it!" He hoped his thanks weren't premature; the bottle looked old, and even though he knew vodka never went bad, he'd been taught a bottle open long enough could still spell disaster for the palate. "May I...?" He took up the bottle and turned it over in his hands, sniffing the contents as Mr. Gainsborough set out the glasses. The liquid itself still looked clear, and while it was too much to hope that it had been made in Poland (the label was faded and illegible), it did smell like rye vodka. Close enough to make this place feel like home, if only for the time it took to enjoy one glass. He passed the bottle over and contained his urge to wriggle in happy anticipation as the other man poured. His parents had allowed him to drink for a handful of years, but only recently had he decided he rather liked the taste, and wasn't just forcing himself to drink it to feel more grown up.
Mr. Gainsborough slid one glass across the table, and Luka cupped it close for a moment, inhaling and letting the sense memory of cozy family gatherings wash over him. But tonight was about looking forward, not huddling in the nostalgia of the past. Silver linings and glasses half-full--of vodka, no less. Shaking his head, he brought himself back to the present and resumed beaming. "I'd be happy to teach you how to play the piano, Mr. Gainsborough!" He lifted his glass. "To...well, music, yes? And, of course..."