moved @ emohell

Imagine Bucky buying that apartment in Bucharest and how he made it his home

Unfurnished, dirt cheap, and a seven-floor walkup- in short, exactly the kind of thing he was looking for. His kitchen is a small island with an element and a sink, and a couple cupboards for food.

His first purchase for the kitchen is a heavy cast-iron pan, adequate as defense weapon in case of home invasion, better for vegetables roasting in butter, a symphony of sharp popping and sizzling. he like the smell of food cooking. It reminds him of something not quite within memory’s reach.

There’s a dew markets which set up near his building, boasting a great deal of produce. Even in the winter there are roots and apples to purchase, and if the pickings are otherwise slim, the corner store a few blocks away supplies him with easy, filling food.

Soup simmers on his island’s element, and the city’s lights obscure all but the brightest stars. He watches airplanes pass through the night and sips from a white bowl with delicate red detailing.

When he dreams, he dreams of endless drifts of snow, a night awash in stars, and the smell of blood.

Better a moonless, starless night, and hearty vegetables floating in a soup.

He cautiously pries bread from a large cast-iron pot when this became home and not a hideaway. He gives what he can’t eat to the old lady who lives on his floor, who often enlists his help carrying groceries up all those stairs and rewards him with candy bars. As though he were a child. He likes the chocolate a great deal, though, and always takes them when she presses a couple in his hand.

The dreams don’t come like they did, replaced by sound and dreamless sleep which leaves him warm in the morning.

It is nearly spring, and the first shoots are coming in at the market. He devises a salad practically raw, save for segments of mandarins heated by the radiator, which crunch like thin sweet ice between his teeth.

He is happy in this solitary meal.