The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang oft agley
Victor's shirt didn't have much of a neckline, but it had enough of one so that how she sat, hunched forward, exposed the way her collarbones jutted out a bit too far. Her fingers were covered in black paint because she was repainting the cover of her book. She put too much trust in the binding, but it was breaking, fraying at the corners and the spine was coming apart. The only solution was to glue it back and recover it with one of those awful cloth bookcovers. She wasn’t thrilled with the design on the bookcover, a green camouflage, so she was painting over it.
She wiped her fingers off the skin of her wrist, clamped her brush between her lips, and reached for the bottle of blue. Then she put it back. Then she picked it up again. Then she put it back again. She’d leave designs for later.
What she really needed to do was ask another question about de-stressing. She washed off her paintbrush and set it aside. Took a deep breath. “So, what’s th’ next big thin’ you’re plannin’ to do? D’ you tend t’ make plans at all? Where d’ you feel most comfortable?”
((X-posted.))
She wiped her fingers off the skin of her wrist, clamped her brush between her lips, and reached for the bottle of blue. Then she put it back. Then she picked it up again. Then she put it back again. She’d leave designs for later.
What she really needed to do was ask another question about de-stressing. She washed off her paintbrush and set it aside. Took a deep breath. “So, what’s th’ next big thin’ you’re plannin’ to do? D’ you tend t’ make plans at all? Where d’ you feel most comfortable?”
((X-posted.))