Valencia Square oh my god they were roommates

Molly found an empty bench to sit at one end of and heard the swish of Plonk's tail among some fallen leaves as the dog sat down beside her in working harness. A still-hot paper cup of Earl Grey tea kept her bare fingers warm from the autumn nip in the air as she listened to the sounds of the square, the street-traffic further off and the footsteps of passerby still closer. The fountain kept up its endless musical rhythms of spray and splash, and Molly picked up on bits of conversation coming into focus and fading into murmurs as the speakers moved past where she sat, some lingering, some racing to their destination. She sipped at her tea and fished in her pocket for one of her ear buds, screwing it into her right ear and tapping her phone to get the audio playing, trying to decide between music or podcast or audiobook...or continued eavesdropping, which was bound to be frustrating if people kept walking away before she could get all the juicy details. Molly tipped her head back, shiny purple sunglasses on beneath a cloudy sky, and smiled to herself.

outfit

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Ghita was visiting Georgios, after he’d decided to not fulfil his promise of coming home at the hour he’d said he would. And find him she did. Her husband, short and grey, was playing chess on the street with a collection of his friends, toting all the mannerisms of a subdued circus conductor.

She patted him with little scolding slaps, fed him her fresh batch of baklava between her Greek grumblings, and sauntered off towards a nearby bench to wait until the match ended. He’d made her come all this way only to find him indulging, the least he could now do was walk her home when he was ready.

Blind herself, she did not mean to step on the dog’s swishing tail, her harness shifting for the effect.

Plonk, well-trained but ever-friendly, did not know the danger until it was too late. She let out a sharp yelp, followed by a high-pitched whine as she stood, trying to wriggle her rear end out of harm's way. Molly put out a hand to her dog, concerned but uncertain of what might've happened. There were footsteps and movement all around, but she hadn't supposed anyone had run up to kick her dog, and throwing things would be pretty wretched in broad daylight. (Not that she didn't believe some people could just be that shitty.)

"Okay, it's okay," she said to her dog, and Plonk licked her fingers and pressed close against her knees. Molly carefully put her cup of tea down on the bench seat close beside her and ran both hands over Plonk from nose to tail, trying to find any injury. "Is there a problem?" she asked out loud, trying not to sound mad or too confrontational, but simply direct.

Her reaction to the obstacle was measured. That was the nature of blindness. Overreactions did not lend themselves to anything good, it only impaired her lasting sense of hearing. Dog and person responded similarly.

Ghita took a rickety step back, aged hand rising to her shawl, the other clutching her handbag. The sound of the harness was distinct and unmistakable. Guide dog. "No dear, sorry," Ghita apologised, voice burnt. "I wanted to sit down. There's usually a bench here?" she asked, mildly disoriented, taking a small step around the dog.

Well it didn’t sound like anyone trying to cause trouble. An older voice, feminine, confused. Husky and accented in a very sexy sort of way. Molly didn’t want to be indignant, and Plonk was already snuffling at her fingers gently, not overly disturbed. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that this woman had vision issues, too. Molly felt the signals of kinship, there. The reliance on routine, knowing what existed where with some kind of permanence. The smallest change could throw the world off its axis, even for just a moment. So you pause, check, and check again. Find out just how the universe has moved around you.

"There is, I’m just…on it, hold on," Molly felt for her cup and made sure her hot drink was back in her hand and the rest of the bench was clear. She slid to the side, scooting far enough and keeping Plonk close so that a space could be made available for the other woman. "There, I hope I’ve made some room."

There was a struggle to the other woman's words, strain running behind her pause and then her focus, as she managed all her responsibilities whilst making room for Ghita to sit. It went unmentioned, but it did not go unnoticed. She was grateful for her efforts in the moment.

So she remained patient, standing crookedly with her fingers pressing into the soft fabric of her shawl. There! She'd made room. "Oh, thank you," Ghita expressed, taking painfully slow steps until she sat with a long smoker's sigh.

Then an inhale, as she gathered her breath again.

"Who's your charming friend?" she asked after, smile crisp as she moved her shoulder towards hers engagingly. Sitting close enough to feel another's presence was preferred.

Maybe it was weird that the woman sat close enough to easily lean lightly into Molly’s space, and under some circumstances, Molly would have resented or distrusted it. But there was something in the way this woman was that didn’t feel intrusive, so much as shared. There was a scent of tobacco and perfume that Molly liked—it lingered lightly enough that made her think it clung to the woman’s clothes.

"Well I don’t know about charm, but this is Plonk," joked Molly easily. Plonk snuffled at her knee as if she knew she was having the piss taken out of her—of course Plonk was charming as heck. You had to hate dogs to hate Plonk, who was a very good girl, so if you hated Plonk, well there wasn’t much hope for you.

Plonk--that was the sound Ghita made when she sat, wasn't it. "You never heard that," she teased the labrador in a harsh whisper, laying a hand upon the gentle slope of its head for only a moment, and only a moment was what she needed to be soothed by the animal's healing energy.

"Does he help you much?"

"Every day," proclaimed Molly affectionately, reaching out to give the good girl a scratch about the ears. "Besides the usual getting around to places, she'll fetch just about anything I drop. Except cheese." Cheese was fair game and gone within half a second if she dropped it. Which she couldn't fault the dog for--Plonk was just living her best life, snapping up cheese fallen from heaven.

Plonk happened to know the word cheese very well and turned her head in Molly's hand, licking her wrist hopefully.

"No I haven't got any!" she told the dog with a laugh.

It was a girl. That was somehow more endearing to know.

Guides dogs had been suggested to Ghita more than once, but it was a topic she'd sealed off for discussion. She had her cane, and even when she didn't, she knew precisely where she was going!

"She's naughty!" she exclaimed, laughing half a second later. Handbag clutched with both hands, it reminded Ghita, "Can she have baklava? I have some with me."

Molly knew when people meant well, and the woman had asked very politely, so she really hoped it wasn't going to cause offense when she refused.

"Thanks, I'm sure she'd love it, but she can't have treats while she's in harness and working," she explained as gently as she could. "Anyway I'm not sure she'd appreciate something that nice--it'd be down so fast she wouldn't have a chance to taste it." Chewing wasn't really something Plonk did unless she had to--anything under a certain size was essentially just inhaled. Labs gonna lab.

She explained with great detail, when really, she could've said it as simply as no. What manners.

"Would you like some?" she asked instead, easily reorienting the proposal.

Molly broke into a grin, even if nobody could see it.

"Thank goodness you offered, I was about to start making really pitiful sloppy whiny drooly noises and try to blame it on the dog," she said. "Baklava sounds amazing! I'm Molly, by the way."

These were all things a yiayia like herself wanted to hear. So she smiled, then laughed, with the heart and soul of a grandmother.

"Ghita, Molly," she introduced herself, leaning lightly into the woman before she unpacked the two slices of baklava that were left. Their only issue was... handling. "Here. I'm holding them right between us." And true enough, Ghita had the petite container between them, high enough that Molly's dear four-legged helper couldn't reach. "You tell me when you've picked one."

"You're awesome, Ghita," said Molly, warming as the hints all clicked into place that made her more and more certain that the older woman had some vision-impairment, as well. There was a subtle acknowledgement, a vibe, an understanding. She got it. And Molly got some baklava. She stuck her paper cup between her thighs to hold it, not too worried that Plonk would jump up and take anything she wasn't offered outright, and moved her hand carefully until her fingers brushed the edge of the box, and dove inside for a sticky slice. "Got it, thanks," she said, lifting it so she could catch the scent, first. "Holy--" She managed--barely--to stop herself from swearing. "This smells incredible."

She set her teeth on it, feeling the crinkle of the delicate pastry layers, the ooze of the syrup out at the edges, and the dense texture of the finely-chopped nuts. Butter, nuts, citrus, spices, honey...

"I think I love you," she told Ghita. "Did you make this yourself?"

The exchange between them might've looked clumsy to the average eye, but by Ghita's standards, it went as smoothly as it could. Molly crept her fingers over the edge, careful enough to not unsettle her own hold, and there it was. Ghita took the other piece because she was, to be honest, a gluttonous spirit, and because she hadn't tried it yet. So certain of her recipes, there was no need.

Molly stopped herself at the intersection between expletive and politeness, which was the ultimate flattery. Baklava had never been a favourite with her own children. It'd always made the boys sick, which made it even better to share.

"Homemade," she confirmed. Taking a bite of the crumbling corner, she tasted for density and syrup. "My mother used to cook all the time. I learned all her recipes before I started going blind." Mhm. She pushed a flake of filo from the corner of her lips inwards. "But now, it's like no one trusts me in the kitchen anymore." Gossip gossip gossip.

"Pfft," Molly shook her head lightly. "You've done magnificent work," she said emphatically. "I'm not much of a cook, myself. Can operate a microwave with a bit of practice, but open flame was never really considered a wise choice." It had used to bother her, when she was younger, when she thought of the delicious dishes her mother had learned to make from her bube...recipes Molly could probably recite by heart, maybe even help with, feeling the ingredients under her fingertips, knowing exactly how something should smell or taste...but not to prepare them entirely herself, with whatever pride and affection anyone ever felt when they shared something like that with their loved ones. That wasn't for Molly, and she'd learned fast that she needed to get over the disappointment and frustration with herself before it made her bitter, before it sent her into paralysis where she didn't bother doing much of anything, even where she could. So she couldn't cook, big whoop, plenty of people couldn't cook. Somehow, everybody still ate.

She savoured another bite of the baklava. Life was weird, but on the balance hers was probably not much weirder than anybody else's.

"It's nice you got the chance to perfect the recipe. I bet you could do this in your sleep."

Molly sounded like someone who took a great many precautions, or else had been forced to. This coming from someone who had never obeyed a rulebook in her life. Though... it wasn't a defining trait. Being blind, or even slightly blind. The world turned regardless of it. So without being aware, Ghita's thoughts traced in the footsteps of Molly's own, until the other woman spoke again.

At which point, she was eager to confirm with great joke, "I do do this in my sleep." Her chest rose and fell in soundless laugh, taking a second bite, and wiping the filo similarly. "But what do you like to do then? If you don't cook. Let me... guess," the elderly woman mused, tone slightly scheming. "I like games."

"Oooh I like games, too," said Molly, grinning around her mouthful of pastry before she found her cup of tea and took a warm sip, the fragrant sharpness of it contrasting perfectly with the sweetness of the baklava. "Should I give you some hints?"

The unhurried ease of the conversation made Molly miss her bube something fierce, a faint ache blooming in her chest. Not for the first time, she asked herself why she was still in Colorado. It was lonely, and it was hard. She could head back to Philadelphia at any time, and her mom wanted her home, and her friends were far off even if she could text them at any time.

But she had a sister here. Sisters, if Tabitha ever came around to the idea. That felt important. So here she was, carving a new kind of life for herself; but as with most carvings, it was looking pretty janky to begin with after only a few hacks at it.

How old could Molly be? None of Ghita's guesses surpassed forty at most. Late twenties? Mid-thirties? Point was that never mind her age, she felt as thick as thieves with her for the moment.

"Give me a hint," she confirmed with an expectant smile, dusting her hands off to the side.

Molly puffed out her cheeks on an exhale as if she were racking her brain for a hint that wasn’t a total giveaway.

"Weeeeeell my eyes may not work, but my ears certainly do…" she tried, grinning as she polished off her slice of baklava and lightly sucked the sticky syrup and pastry crumbs from her fingertips in a way she hoped wasn’t too graceless but also she didn’t give a damn.

Beethoven was deaf, not blind, but still she was reminded of him here. Without sparing a moment, "Piano?" Ghita asked in dire suspense, as if they were in some sort of gameshow.

She hoped she was wrong, if only because it would've been too easy!

Molly sucked her teeth, but she was smiling. Had she been too obvious, in her hint?

"You're good!" she told Ghita, and it had to be the truth, anyway. A general stab at music might have been one thing, but the woman had gone straight for the right instrument. But maybe there was still more to guess... "And what might I do with a piano?"

Nooooo... but there was more! "Don't you play it?" Ghita asked the obvious. Buying time to think harder about the question.

Molly felt herself shrug, though she knew the gesture was lost on them both. True, there was her piano-karaoke gig at The Terrace, and that brought in a nice bit of income; but her bread and butter was still the tuning.

"It would be much too straightforward of me to just play pianos," she said with a grin.

She lowered her chin, brows furrowed challengingly. "Do you tune them? Or teach them?"

Other than that, all else she could do was sell them?

"Tuning!" declared Molly delightedly. "The eyes ain't shit but the ears work great," she added with a grin, hoping that this wasn't one of those older people who got all gaspy over some mild cussing. But in her experience, people with a husky voice that felt so lived in weren't too persnickety about so-called vulgarity, and people who could bake like that and share it were too kind to take that kind of offense easily. "Though I do live piano kareoke at a bar, too."

Impossible! She hadn’t been wrong!

Ghita howled with such old laughter, full of spirit but frail and tender with age. There was a chance she could break if she laughed too hard.

”You live a life full of sounds. I do envy that,” she confided teasingly. ”Tell me where you do this. I should come and ask after the pianist one night.”

It was as good a reason to force Georgios into taking her out like she deserved.

"The Terrace, in Hawknell," said Molly, beaming. The sound of the older woman's laughter just filled her up, somehow, and left her feeling brighter. Like she'd just had a massage, but without the weird ache. "We'll have you singing your heart out in no time." Not that Ghita seemed the shy sort--Molly only knew she was in for a delightful surprise, whatever her go-to song was.

Her phone buzzed its alarm in her pocket and Molly fished it out, turning it off.

"I've got to be on my way to my next appointment," she explained. "But it's been lovely meeting you, Ghita."

She gathered Plonk's lead and her cup of tea and got to her feet to head off.

"And thanks for the baklava," she added. "Best I've ever had."