Mary, Harry, (John ?) Mary's Place, Tuesday 2 Aug, 2030

[mscontrarymary]

Mary's curled up on the couch with Murphy beside her. The television's on and she's playing Minecraft, which seems to take more and more time recently.

Her mobile rings, and she jumps, before scrabbling for it. Harry?

"Hello?"

Comments

[w_harry]

"Hey." It is indeed Harry, her speach a bit slury, but held tighly in control. "I need your help. Can I come round?"

[mscontrarymary]

"Of course. Are you okay?" Mary bites her lip. "Where are you?"

[w_harry]

"Somewhere on Farrington Lane. Not sure how exactly I got here, to be honest." She laughs silently and Mary can hear traffic in the background.

[mscontrarymary]

"You're not driving are you?" Mary's already looking for her bag, keys, jacket. "Blackfriars- you're miles away! I think you're even closer to your place. Can't you just go home?"

She's already left.

[mscontrarymary]

The next morning, Mary wakes up first and experiences a moment of confusion (and mild panic) at the ruffled blonde hair on the pillow next to her.

"...Oh." Yawning, she pulls on a dressing-gown over her nightie and shuffles into the kitchen to put on the kettle.

[w_harry]

Awoken by the movement beside her, all Harry can do at first is groan. She listens to the clatter of abused kitchen appliances for a while before she finally decides to get up.

Only after she has noticed that she is still in her work clothes (that's why herp feet had felt so restricted at night - her socks had twisted around them), she discovers that this is not her own bedroom. A brief moment of panic was had before her headache distracts her, also proving as a reminder.

"Oh, arsebisquits."

[mscontrarymary]

"Ah, sleeping beauty awakes." Mary pokes her head round the bedroom door. "There's a glass of water next to you. I'm making tea."

[w_harry]

"Thnks."

Finally Harry has made it out of the bed, downing the glass of water like it was ambrosia. She heads for the bathroom, holding her head. She wasn't that drunk yesterday... but still enough to regret it on more than one front right now.

One is her looks. She looks herself over in the bathroom mirror: Scruffed, eyeliner smeared, eyes bloodshot, dark rings under them.

"Good morning, loser," she murmurs to herself before she splashes her face with water, trying to wash off the sleep as well as the last day.

Somehow in a presentable shape again - although her clothes and skin are still wrinkled beyond hope - she enters the kitchen, a bit hesistant.