The Country from Hell
You walk towards the open door with the empty cans of beer around it. You don't realize that the asphalt walkway has ended until you step on the edge of a rock, sharply twisting your ankle and falling hard on your knees. A little cloud of dust billows up around you, punctuating your embarrassment. You don't hear any sadistic laughter, though, so apparently no one has seen you. You paw angrily at the unwelcome tears that have formed in your eyes as you stand up to inspect the damage. Both your knees are scratched. The right one has gravel stuck in it and is bleeding considerably. A red line of blood has dried halfway down your shin. The side of your skirt is covered with dirt; you've skinned your elbow. As you stand up, a sharp jolt of pain shoots up your foot and all the way up your leg.
You hate this country so much. Sidewalks aren't sidewalks. People aren't people. You allow the anger to take over you. You testily wipe off your skirt and don't even bother with your bleeding knee before storming into the doorway with its disgusting beer cans, ready to do war with whatever asshole might be unlucky enough to be inside.
The boy at the desk looks up, surprised, as you come blowing in. His green eyes smile at you, even as his face remains impassive. His hair is a dusty blond, so your first thought about him is that he is probably a Frosty. Your theory is confirmed when you look down at the newspaper on his desk and see an upside-down headline in that inscrutable language. He follows your gaze, smiling enigmatically and waiting for you to be the first to speak. You are surprised that these few seconds of silence have restored a sense of calm in you, and you manage to say in an even voice,
"Hi. I'm looking for a new surge protector."
"Do you have a warranty?" he asks. His voice is deep and you can't detect any accent. Maybe he's one of the few Frosties who actually bothered to learn Iadian when they invaded your country. It was the least they could do.
"No, I don't have a warranty."
"Do you have the serial number?"
"I don't know. It's this one," you say, pulling the old surge protector out of your purse and handing it to him. He takes it but continues to stare at you with those troublesome green eyes. Is he laughing at you?
Stretching out his arm, he examines the blown surge protector with exaggerated interest. Then he brings it to his nose, taking quick little sniffs at it.
"Fried as a cabbage," he proclaims.
Despite yourself, you smile. The boy stands up, revealing a tall, slender frame. He puts on a pair of glasses, which he balances amusingly on the end of his nose, and walks over to a dilapidated old shelf holding several brand-new computer parts. It strikes you as strange to have such shiny, modern things sitting in a pile of dust.
The boy walks toward you, stopping suddenly when he sees your bleeding leg.
"You're bleeding," he says flatly. Again, his eyes are smiling while his lips remain stiff as a board.
"I know," you answer back, just as flatly.
He walks up very close to you, handing you the old and the new surge protectors, keeping his hand outstretched even after you have taken them from him.
"I'm Szil. At your service."
"Szil?" Frosties have such ridiculous names.
"Yes, Szil is what all my American friends call me."
"How much does this cost, Szil?"
"A million."
"You're kidding."
"You need some first aid. Wait here a moment." He disappears into a back room.
Szil is indeed a Frosty if he's dumb enough to give you a piece of new merchandise and then leave the room. A million? Why, that's more than thirty of your American cousin's dollars! A small fortune!
You look toward the back room, but you can't even hear Szil anymore. Those green eyes of his are bothering you. Your feet want to run away.
What should you do?
You hate this country so much. Sidewalks aren't sidewalks. People aren't people. You allow the anger to take over you. You testily wipe off your skirt and don't even bother with your bleeding knee before storming into the doorway with its disgusting beer cans, ready to do war with whatever asshole might be unlucky enough to be inside.
The boy at the desk looks up, surprised, as you come blowing in. His green eyes smile at you, even as his face remains impassive. His hair is a dusty blond, so your first thought about him is that he is probably a Frosty. Your theory is confirmed when you look down at the newspaper on his desk and see an upside-down headline in that inscrutable language. He follows your gaze, smiling enigmatically and waiting for you to be the first to speak. You are surprised that these few seconds of silence have restored a sense of calm in you, and you manage to say in an even voice,
"Hi. I'm looking for a new surge protector."
"Do you have a warranty?" he asks. His voice is deep and you can't detect any accent. Maybe he's one of the few Frosties who actually bothered to learn Iadian when they invaded your country. It was the least they could do.
"No, I don't have a warranty."
"Do you have the serial number?"
"I don't know. It's this one," you say, pulling the old surge protector out of your purse and handing it to him. He takes it but continues to stare at you with those troublesome green eyes. Is he laughing at you?
Stretching out his arm, he examines the blown surge protector with exaggerated interest. Then he brings it to his nose, taking quick little sniffs at it.
"Fried as a cabbage," he proclaims.
Despite yourself, you smile. The boy stands up, revealing a tall, slender frame. He puts on a pair of glasses, which he balances amusingly on the end of his nose, and walks over to a dilapidated old shelf holding several brand-new computer parts. It strikes you as strange to have such shiny, modern things sitting in a pile of dust.
The boy walks toward you, stopping suddenly when he sees your bleeding leg.
"You're bleeding," he says flatly. Again, his eyes are smiling while his lips remain stiff as a board.
"I know," you answer back, just as flatly.
He walks up very close to you, handing you the old and the new surge protectors, keeping his hand outstretched even after you have taken them from him.
"I'm Szil. At your service."
"Szil?" Frosties have such ridiculous names.
"Yes, Szil is what all my American friends call me."
"How much does this cost, Szil?"
"A million."
"You're kidding."
"You need some first aid. Wait here a moment." He disappears into a back room.
Szil is indeed a Frosty if he's dumb enough to give you a piece of new merchandise and then leave the room. A million? Why, that's more than thirty of your American cousin's dollars! A small fortune!
You look toward the back room, but you can't even hear Szil anymore. Those green eyes of his are bothering you. Your feet want to run away.
What should you do?