currently untitled

[tinsoldiered]

WHO Georgia Bradford [Molly Whuppie] and Charlie Toussaint [Tin Soldier]
WHEN Wednesday January 16 2007, 7 PM
WHERE Georgia's house in Queens
WHAT As promised, Charlie takes down Mrs. Bradford's Christmas lights. They exchange gifts.
RATING TBD!
STATUS In-Progress!

Comments

[cometospain]

A puff of steam and the glow of the entryway illuminated the shilouette of Georgia Bradford's considering figure in the sharpness of that early night, the ambition of her shadow groping towards the furthest reaches of her front yard. Her chin was trapped within one knotted hand, and the other tapped the wooden cane as she thought with her peculiar brand of mock arduous deliberation, until the very moment when the head of the cane knocked at its loudest and Georgia lifted her hand in theatrical dismissal.

"Where they always go, Charles. But," her voice insisted, strong and clear as it always perseveres in doing, "do place them on the porch furniture for now. You have a hot dinner waiting for you and I won't abide it getting cold. If there is anything more abysmal than reheated beans," and the voice was decidedly acrid with her particular sarcasm on the tip, "I think the military would be hard-pressed to not use it as a secret weapon. Now!" The cane cracked again, that icy air around the two being the best of sound conductors. "Come along. And don't forget to wash before you sit down."

Georgia didn't pause to see if he followed, her feet taking for granted the promise of obedience. With the click of the latch, though, and Georgia was already setting out the weekday china and arranging the forks just so. The timer interrupted Terry Gross in the middle of a particularly insightful question to an Iraqui governing counselman, but for what that moment lacked in information as to the fate of the Middle East profited in a perfectly baked meatloaf. And so she set about to fretting with the set-up of the table, from the place of the salad in relation to the baked beans to fidgeting with the rolls to see if the bottoms were particularly burnt. Whatever her schedule had been when with Roger, she had always managed to have a sit-down meal that wasn't obscenely repugnant, and Georgia still clung to that little shred of pride as any woman who valued such a questionable prize would.

"Charles, what would you like to drink? I have the usual." The teacloth whirred around the edge of her stemware before she unceremoniously poured a decent vintaged red into the glass; after all, however humble the dish, Georgia believed in the importance of one's daily antioxidants or whatever was in wine these days. Fresh Air had, by now, drifted into a musical interlude. "And don't think about filling up too quick, since I have desert in the icebox."