(Untitled)

[wishboned]

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.

Comments

[shamethemoon]

You know what, I so do not need this right now.

Right on cue, the edge is back in her voice - even harsher because she's once again on the defensive, right where she hates to be. This is why she doesn't ever give him an inch of credit, because it's always some fucked up ploy to get the upper hand.

[wishboned]

His hand feels heavy and disconnected, but he rubs his forehead anyway, pinches the skin above one eyebrow. Though he hears his breathy, ironic laugh, he could be convinced that it was hers, or someone else on the balcony with him.

No, that game, that game I'm not so hot with.

[shamethemoon]

You're not even making any sense.

He was running out of chances. She wasn't going to fall for this game of 'insult, semi-apology' anymore tonight.

You know, you're almost tolerable when you're drunk, but you're not quite there yet.

She took the phone from her ear for a second as she wrapped a towel around herself.

[wishboned]

It's ballsy, but he's drunk, so he tries to co-opt that unwise goodwill into one more poor decision in Reagan's lengthy list, tries almost too quickly after she's finished speaking:

You could help me practice.

[shamethemoon]

Lucky for the both of them, she doesn't catch that bit as she pulls her towel tight. Instead, there's another awkward moment of silence while she tries to decide whether he said something or whether he's fallen asleep. Her decision to carry on the conversation (and not slam down the phone) makes it clear that she didn't hear him.

I mean, I'm flattered that I'm the only woman awake who will take your calls, but I think we both need our sleep. I've got a lot to do tomorrow.

Like get that pedicure. And get a marching band to play outside of her ex-husband's window at 7am.

[wishboned]

Once it becomes clear that she didn't hear him, he feels relief and irritation in equal measure; somehow, the combination is the precise recipe for exhaustion. He snorts, not unpleasantly, but unwilling to consider why he is or is not feeling pleasant, or anything related to emotions at all. Emotions give him vertigo.

Way to be sensible.

He hangs up.