[The Conservatory] Cattleya #4

[soricel]

Name: Acknowledgement
Story: The Conservatory
Colors: Cattleya #4: Sprezzatura  
Word Count: 630
Rating: G
Warnings: NA

"I saw you observing the flowers," Scapp said.

 

Tanni brought her index finger to her forehead. I am acknowledging your observation, the gesture said. Like everything else the Artists said to each other at the Conservatory, at least when they were in the Directors' earshot, it was meant to communicate an objective fact about the present moment--devoid of speculation, assumption, criticism, praise, emotion. And like everything else the Artists did, the forehead-touch was taught to them as soon as they were old enough to learn. In any given moment, the Directors could observe countless fingers tapping foreheads around the Conservatory grounds, and most of those gestures would look identical: a hand would lift just in front of the eyes, the index finger would bend, recoil, then peck the brow just below the hairline. The taps were as automatic as they were superfluous: by the time one could raise their hand, acknowledgment would have already been communicated through any number of involuntary nonverbal signals: a tilt of the head in the speaker's direction, an intake of breath, a dilation of the pupils. But the tap was meant to obstruct and supersede these other expressions: it was not incidental that the gesture involved covering most of one's face with one's hand, thus blocking any message that could be conveyed through widening eyes or flaring nostrils. The forehead-tap--intentional, deliberate, disciplined--was meant to eliminate the possibility of implication or inference, of subtext, of subjectivity. It was a response, not a reaction.

 

And yet, the Directors were skilled at intercepting messages encoded in certain kinds of forehead-taps. They could read the anger in a particularly punchy tap, the irritation in the delay of a finger's crooking, the boredom in the rubbing of the fingerpad into the skin of the forehead. But luckily, though the pleasant weather had drawn many of the off-duty Directors outside tonight, none of them happened to be looking in Tanni's direction when she tapped her forehead in acknowledgment of Scapp's comment. None of them saw how slowly--far more slowly than was customary--she drew her finger back; how she slid her fingertip down to the space between her eyebrows; how she watched Scapp as she did so through the cracks between her fingers.

 

Of course, Scapp saw all of this. And when they heard Tanni's next comment, they did not only hear a clinical description of the way the clusters of white flowers on the branches swayed above the courtyard wall. They wouldn't have been able to translate what they heard beneath Tanni's words; nor would they have been able to identify, much less express, the emotions that unspoken, ineffable message stirred up inside of them. All of that seemed as ephemeral as the perfume the flowers seemed to be releasing in gratitude for the twilight that made their delicate white petals glow so prettily.

 

Scapp had seen Tanni observing the flowers--but more than that, and what they could never say, was that they had seen how she stood as she did so, her Dancer's body at once poised and relaxed, her bare, sinewy arms hanging down at her sides and yet somehow still active, her shaved head tilted just enough to perfectly complement the angle of her hips. Even just standing there, idly observing the flowers, her sleeveless t-shirt rippling slightly in the spring breeze, she didn't seem to be still so much as paused between movements, waiting patiently for the next note for her body to respond to.

 

Scapp wanted to tell her how badly he wished to be able to play that note.

 

Instead, they touched their index finger to their forehead, and hoped Tanni heard some of what they wanted to say in the silent sound of their fingertip touching their brow.