Dragon Kin

04

The activity can be anything. It could be researching a subject, or learning a skill. It could be reading a novel. It could be using a skill: baking, archery, violin playing, boxing, hunting, screaming. Anything: As long as the focus was on the process and not the result and you achieved immersion.

The activities that worked best, the easiest to achieve Flow in, were usually tasks you liked to do, and challenged you. Something you were earning from — job, hobby, vocation — earning money, fame or esteem, recognition or perhaps helping a friend — you felt a reward. Something you were good at; felt confident in doing. You understood the basics, and maybe even a bit more than the average practitioner.

And lastly, something that challenged you. In other words, it wasn't a given that you would succeed. You probably would. There was a good chance you would. Yeah, you could take'em.

Then, when it happens, the whole world vanishes, and is instantly replaced by a sense of purpose and expansion.

I loved that feeling. Almost as much as I loved Frisson, which I hear some people call a 'skin orgasm.'

Anyway, that's what we believed — how we lived. There's a bit more to it, like the Marks, which, even after all of our learning and various skills, we know literally nothing about. And it wasn't like we weren't looking. But we still had no idea why the Marks appeared, other than your mate was near.

We used to exile those who didn't receive their mark before they were twenty. The reasoning behind that was — after twenty years in the same clan, if you didn't have a mark, your mate wasn't here. Get out. Find him.

It doesn't happen much any more. Things change. They find other norms. After all, maybe everyone didn't have someone out there. And maybe they were fine with that. People are different. Even in the same clan.

Not me, but y'know... people. Other people.

No, not me. I did want someone. I wasn't sure I needed a Mark to tell me who he was. And a Mark wasn't everything. It didn't mean there weren't other men out there, who I could love, and would love me. No. It just meant, really, that this one, the Marked one, was a really good match, and I might want to check him out — says the...

... Ah, yes, and there's the rub. We don't know who gives the Marks, or how the match is made. Why him? How'd you come up with that? Who the fuck are you?

I noticed I was squeezing my fists, and they were hurting, so I stopped walking and loosened up my hands. Had to shake them a bit to get the blood flowing again. Then the left one fell to sleep. Prickly needles across my palm. I shook it some more. Then a car turned the corner, so I got off the street and began opening and closing my fist.

If Ismael was inside the Hangover, I would stick around for a while to see if he's talking and if so, what he's talking about. If not, I wasn't sure what I would do, but there would be no reason to hang around. I could eat. They had great food.

As I walked closer to the bar, I could hear the music from inside. They often had live music but tonight sounded like a DJ — unless they had Lana Del Ray on stage, because that's what was playing. Her song Florida Kilos.

"Feel you, baby, baby, feel me. Turn it up high, loving you is free... but you already know, what you already know."

One of the songs I loved from her.

As I stepped inside I felt — it was like electricity buzzing inside my teeth. Seriously strange. I looked around, and spotted Ismael. He was at the bar, all the way to the back against the wall, leaning over what looked like a double whiskey in a highball and a mug of beer on the side. Rubbing my jaw, until the sensation passed, I headed in that direction.

Searching, as I slowly walked to the bar, I found that there were no tables near him, not with any open chairs. There was a seat at the bar, three down from him, with a middle aged woman between him and that space. So, I moved a bit faster and got to the stool, then asked the woman, "Anyone here?"

"You hawt," she said, stirring her drink with a thin bar straw. "Where y'at cher?"

"Awrite," I said, sitting down. "É'tu?"

"Awrite," she said, brushing her long brown hair back from her green eyes, she gave me a once over, and then turned back to her drink. She wasn't here to meet anyone. After the polite greetings, she dismissed me, and settled back down into her own thoughts, and the whiskey sour.

Her and Ismael, were the only ones in a serious drinking mode. There were forty others in the bar. Dem making a good time. Two pool tables, both with quarters on the wait. The DJ switched to Lorde, Yellow Flicker Beat. Another song I liked.

"Surg, what you want?," the bartender asked when she got down to me.

I smiled, and then gave her an order for loaded fries, and a Milla to drink, while passing a twenty to her. She snatched the cash, made change, then set that back down in front of me, and left to fill the order.

A Milla was made with chamomile liqueur, sparkling wine, honey and lemon. They tasted wonderful. Maybe a little too good. A couple of these and I would be dancing on the leopard print pool table.

Glancing down the bar, I could easily see Ismael. He was taller than me, by several inches, so I guessed him at six feet — maybe six-two, working from memory. Long brown hair with deep tanned skin. He was thin, and long, in the way shrimpers are.

They never seemed to get any fat on them. It was hard working the nets, and their diet was mostly fish and shrimp, so very little fat. Plus, they tended to be heavy drinkers, and Ismael was certainly holding to that tradition. Beside his glass, he had four bar straws laying next to each other, counting his drinks, and he couldn't have been here long. Right? Not more than an hour or so.

He wasn't staring into his drink, but rather giving his reflection in the bar-back mirror the stink-eye.

Ash, the bartender, put down my drink, and then checked with the woman beside me, who nodded and waved a limp hand at the bills behind her glass. Ash took some of what was there, and then went to Ismael.

"Making room?" she asked.

He looked up to her, chuckled, and then barked, "Took'em. Dat took'em. Ain't crazy, ain't drunk. Dat took'em." His Yat, a mix of Orleans and Cajun.

Ash cocked her head, "Who dat?" she asked, her Yat accent heavy.

He opened his mouth to answer, and then snapped it shut. Looking back down at his glass he shook his head, "Ain't nothing. Make me dis." Then he pushed his money at her, but wouldn't look up at her any more.

Ash waited a beat, a look of concern on her brow, but then took his money and left to fill the orders. She had a full house tonight, and worked two waitresses. She didn't have time if he couldn't speak.

He had my attention though.

Took'em. Dat took'em

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