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Museumtown shrank smaller and smaller as the partisans’ cowsowhorse-drawn carts rattled into the country. Above the city, The Thick and Sweaty Wind shaped her sunburned clouds into billowy words of farewell. Mr. Grey and Tom watched the city and the words dwindle. They sat together, alone at the back of the rearmost cart. Their legs dangled off the edge, passing through a broad field of cottonfruit which brushed clean their shoes. Tom swung his legs back and forth through the puffy, berry-bearing tufts. Mr. Grey held his legs still, and busied his hands winding the pocket ticker.
Tom fixed his eyes on the pale towers and crumbling walls of the city as it sank into the tassels. He spoke to Mr. Grey without looking at him. “Why bother tracking the time? That Sun Fish up there, it won’t rise or set.”
The ticker’s winding clicks paused. Mr. Grey set his hands on his lap. He looked sideways at Tom. Tom carried small bags beneath his steel eyes, and his thin silver hair looked rusted with sweat. But he held his bristled chin high. His robe’s cloud zeppelins rolled in the hot breeze.
Mr. Grey said, “I suppose it’s principle. And its a habit.”
Tom nodded.
From the front of the cart came the loud crack of a lash, followed by Honeydew’s voice. “This is intolerable. We’re crawling. Can’t these stupid animals go faster?” They heard another whip crack. The cowsowhorse moved steadily forward, at the expected mosey of an animal that is ⅓ horse, and ⅔ cowsow.
Tom asked, “Can I look at your ticker?”
Mr. Grey placed the device in Tom’s hand, then set his palms flat on his knees. The ticker seemed tiny in Tom’s palm. The big man held it up to his face; peered through the crystal glass; ran a finger along the smooth metal casing.
“Sometimes I’m sulky,” said Tom. He watched the ticker’s moving hands. “When friends have contrary tastes.”
Mr. Grey said, “That… means we’re friends, right?” Tom looked at Mr. Grey and nodded. They listened to the infrequent whip-cracks of Honeydew motivating their cowsowhorse, and the frequent clicks of Tom twisting the ticker’s key, and the constant churr of bellbugs in the cottonfruit sea. The field rolled beneath and around the pair. The tufts and berries whisked their dangling shoes.
Tom said, “Let’s doff our footwear,” Without waiting for a reply, Tom heaved his own legs up from the grass and undid his laces.
“Why would we do that?” asked Mr. Grey.
“To see how it feels; the cotton plants on your feet.”
“Won’t that be itchy?”
Tom glanced sideways at Mr. Grey. “That’s possible, yes.” He set his shoes to the side, set his palms on the wagon floor behind him, relaxed back, and lowered his feet into the rolling cottonfruit.
“Oh, very well then.” Mr. Grey brought his own knees up, undid his shoes, and stuck his feet in after Tom.
They sat quietly beside each other, a small grey man, and a big one in a robe like the sky; both shoeless, feet dangling off the cowsowhorse-drawn cart; passing through a hot cottonfruit field, glowing amber in the Sun Fish’s light; tiny clouds of cotton, tiny shiny berries, brushing between their toes.
This has been In Different Color, a fairy tale.
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