(no subject)
Who: Simon Shaw (PINOCCHIO)
What: Pacing, anxiety, and a message left for Sophie Jacoby (THE CRICKET)
When: BACKDATED! Thursday, April 10. Around 2:30 AM in New York.
Where: New York City and London, respectively.
Rating: PG-13
Clack clack clack clack clack. It's the sound made by Simon's bare feet on the hardwood floor of his bedroom. It's a fucking smudge of white against the sky, this townhouse. The sky itself is brushed with traces of dawn, the sun just peeking over the tops of the houses. It's one of those damp mornings filled with strong coffee and pale, fuzzy dew that mists out over everything and clings to hair and cotton. This townhouse is in London, miles and miles and miles away from home. Not home in the sense of a house or even a place of belonging, since that city has always been a little sharp on his edges. It's more like the home you carve out for yourself with friends and comfortable possessions. There's Irma with him, sleeping silently, but it's not Sophie.
He fumbles with the latch on the window and slides it open, then grabs for his phone. The number is easily dialed, and he raises it to his ear. Voicemail. It doesn't quite occur to him that it's an obscene hour of the morning in New York. "Sophie, hi, uh, helloooo." There's something addling his speech; liquor or insomnia, it's not clear. "It's me! It's Simon! Your fucking best friend. I'm in London and it is just great here! Bye!"
Hanging up, he scratches at his forehead. This doesn't seem right. He dials again and, again, receives her voicemail in answer. "Fuck all, this is such shit. I hate it here. Why did I leave? Why do I always do this?" He says wearily into the receiver. "I'm just, Sophie, I am so sorry but I hate Avery and he hates me and I don't think I'd hate him if he were just nice to me for fucking once and you always prefer him over me and I can't do it anymore--"
The beep and disconnect of the line tell Simon that his time to record is over. He flips the phone closed and sits on the floor, back to the wall, head in his hands. Simon takes two shuddering breaths and rubs his eyes. The phone is opened again and the Cricket's number dialed. "So. I'll be back soon. We can forget all this rubbish even happened, yeah? Cheers." As he hangs up, he tosses the cell phone gently over into some distant corner of the room. Simon stands and his feet fumble over the floorboards; he trips over his own limbs and collapses onto the bed, sleep taking over once and for all.