(Untitled)
WHO: Perry Holiday (THE GENIE) & Reagan Ong (THE IFRIT'S WIFE)
WHAT: Drunk-dialing his ex wife; what can possibly go wrong?
WHEN: Late Friday night / early Saturday morning
RATING: Uh, let's say R.
( Read more... )
WHAT: Drunk-dialing his ex wife; what can possibly go wrong?
WHEN: Late Friday night / early Saturday morning
RATING: Uh, let's say R.
( Read more... )
I just--shit.
It takes a bit before it's clear that the subtle static is actually laughter. He lifts a bottle to his lips--he actually walked out with it, from the party, didn't say goodbye to anyone, just took it with him--but can't get more than a cursory sip with all the laughter.
Jesus, so many sirens in this fucking city.
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Perry?
Her attempts to decipher the various noises made by Perry and the Big Apple leave her feeling confused, and though there's a large part of her that's more than willing to laugh at his clear state of disarray, the unfortunate part that still cares about him is overriding the system. For now, at least.
What's going on?
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Nothing's going on. Nothing's ever going on. I hate it here, hate the skyline, hate the time zone, hate the scene. I mean, it's cold outside. It's May and I'm cold.
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Nothing going on? You'd think they'd stop making so many damn movies about the city, then.
A slosh of water can be heard as she crosses her legs.
And maybe you should wear a jacket. Or would that have messed up tonight's dress code?
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He pauses, curiously interpreting the sound of water, but doesn't come to any reasonable conclusion. A drink from the bottle sears off whatever stupid inquiry he was about to make, though it doesn't sear away the stupidity altogether.
Yeah, Rea, would've fucked with the whole aesthetic.
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Games. Why was it always games with him?
Look, what do you want, Perry? You call me on a Friday night just to be a jerk to me? Because we could have waited until you were sober for that.
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Sorry, sorry. That's not--
That's so far from his point in all this that he doesn't appear to notice that he's apologized for anything. The slur worsens.
--I'm wearing a jacket, it's cold anyway. What I'm trying to say is, you tell me I should wear a jacket, and I tell you I'm not wearing one, when I am. And I don't get it. I don't know why that is.
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There's a considerable pause while Reagan considers what possible response is appropriate here. When they're not playing with biting sarcasm or flinging insults at each other, she sometimes forgets how to talk to him. How to talk like a normal person.
I don't know why either. But I'm glad you're not freezing on the streets of Manhattan. A beat.
Don't know why you ever bother leaving the west coast anyway.
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The last syllable is drawn out hesitantly, then ends in a 'heh'.
Who goes to Manhattan anymore, anyway.
I'm on the balcony.
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Oh.
Normally, she'd tell him to go inside, but she figures it'd be a waste of breath.
So where'd you go tonight, party boy? Please tell me you weren't just drinking at home by yourself.
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Like anything I could say would make you happier.
He considers sharing--he saw Neil, even if he tried not to talk--but seems to know it would end in teasing, and he's not in the mood to be teased. He picks at the ends of his tie, which is draped over his shoulders like a towel.
You at home?
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She rolls her eyes and then pauses before answering.
Yeah, had a headache.
At least that left open the possibility that she had gone out with various charming men earlier in the evening.
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He laughs again. It's a rare sort of laugh, slower, warmer than the typical networking chuckle. He pulls off the tie and stares at it, hard though with bleary eyes, under the fluorescent balcony light. One ugly-ass tie, he thinks now.
Now don't tell me you've been getting stupid phonecalls from other men.
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A smile, despite herself.
No, most men generally just send e-mails these days. The days of decent drunk dialing seem mostly dead, thank goodness you're still keeping the tradition alive.
Plus, you know that I screen my calls.
A compliment that's probably subtle enough to go over a drunk person's head, she figures. Sitting up slowly, she uses her free hand to pick at the nail polish on her left toe. Time for another pedicure tomorrow.
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He considers the tie, then drops it, and runs his palm along the side of his face. It catches below his cheekbone, and the pressure is sobering. He can put a smirk in his voice that isn't anywhere on his face.
Might've heard that somewhere, yeah.
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A flake of burgundy polish comes off under the water as she sighs. When she was married to Perry, she knew the feeling of carrying the conversation well - those who surrounded him always felt the need to be entertaining, lest he lose interest. She thought that her days of keeping the conversation rolling had ended when she signed the divorce papers. Apparently not.
So. Anything you want to talk about, or do you want me to sing you a lullaby so you can fall asleep?
An inside joke if there ever was one. Reagan Ong did not sing - thankfully for all who knew her - not even in the shower. Even infants would prefer silence to her tone-deaf lullabies.
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