She dropped down onto the floor and picked up her kitsch lips phone to call Carys, fishing a suspect-looking object out of her tea first. She put it on the floor and studied it. What was it? A slice of onion, she thought. She grimaced, hoping the flavour had not yet pervaded the brew itself.
Carys picked up after three rings. "Hi!", she said cheerily; "I'm just painting the fence! Lovely day!" Carys' introductory sentences often ended in exclamation marks; you could hear them down the phone line. Grunting noises ensued as she juggled paintbrushes, tins and phones and cups of tea, then a happy sigh. Carys was ready to converse.
"So," she asked, "how go the plans?"
"Fine: it'll be at Bralingyr, obviously. Everyone's coming, as far as I know; though Eve's being elusive. She hates social occasions almost as much as I do, so I wouldn't be surprised if she didn't turn up..."
"She'll be there. It's Beltane; how could she not be?"
The conversation continued; they'd use the back garden down to the river; lanterns would be strung from trees; people would bring food for a picnic. Those who wanted to would stay over, though this would probably be mainly Lothario's friends.
Arrangements were made for Ant's funeral the next week. He'd died young, wrapping his car around a tree, forgetting cars have no hippie sympathies and aren't good for treehugging. She would be travelling down to the sea, though it was far away, to see him off. His life was worth that, damn it.
Carys was going to work; She hung up the phone feeling a little brighter. Walked into the kitchen, picked up a carrot from the fridge. Bit into it: frozen. Sighing, she made another cup of tea; no onions this time. Retreated into the music room and sat down on the bed to read.
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