[ Wednesday; seven forty five in the evening. The Happy Egg Diner on the corner of Sepulveda and North Barton.
Phillipa finds herself exactly where she needs to be fifteen minutes early. She'd considered walking (it's not far from a stop on her usual bus line, the 7 now running at half-efficiency as the construction down Broad continues to disrupt her normal commute. In the end, she'd chosen to bike instead -- something of a perilous affair during rush hour, but exceedingly less so in the hours that follow -- so now she's here, more than punctual for once. Her sketchbook, complete with Turner postcard and a few photocopies from her Art in Antiquity textbook shelved away between its pages, is squirreled away in her knapsack beside her along with her phone.
Every so often she checks it, worried perhaps that she's missed a call; everytime she thumbs across the home screen to unlock it, she expects a voicemail to be waiting for her in her inbox. ("Sorry, Phillipa. Have to cancel.") But that call never comes
( ... )
(He walked. He got out of the house without any trouble, and if he's lucky he'll get back in without any event, either. There's no way Sal won't notice that he's gone, not when there's no one else in the house, but there are days she's less abrasive with him than others.
Before leaving the apartment, he spends a good five minutes in front of a cracked mirror, not out of vanity but out of self-doubt and in part, self-derision. What would she want with you?His hair is combed in a way that suggests making himself presentable isn't something he has cause to worry about often, wearing a sweater pulled over a button-down shirt whose collar only just peeks out. In his hands is the model boat, a foot or so in length and incredibly elaborate for not having been built off of any sort of template, evidence of his meticulous care fully evident. As soon as he spots Phillipa, Francis makes his way over, hesitating for just a moment before taking the seat across from her, placing the boat (and a
( ... )
[ She's not entirely sure what she's meant to do when she first sees Francis appear in the doorway; whether or not she should stand (too formal) or help him (too pushy) or just sit there patiently and pretend she's not relieved to see him (too not her). In the end, she sits on both of her hands to keep from reaching out to touch the model, her fingers squished resolutely underneath her thighs, right behind each knee -- stubbornly pinned.
The temptation is to simply stare at the boat, to marvel at its meticulous detail and all of the things about Francis it must imply. But for now, she does none of that, forces herself to look at him across the table, her mouth forming the faintest curve upwards.
When Phillipa smiles at him, it's with her eyes. And unlike her mouth it's not just a suggestion, it's a proper smile. ] Hello, Francis.
[ Only just barely audibly: ] I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long. [ Where his voice is solely timid, there's a quality of something close to hopefulness in Francis' expression (in the fact that he meets her gaze at all), as if he were seeking out her approval.
[ A few days after seeing Philipa, something comes in the mail addressed to Francis. It's a postcard (another one) but unlike the one she'd given him a few days earlier, this is not of any painting. Instead, the illustration appears to be done by hand (the strokes are hard enough in places that the tip of the pencil has left grooves in the card surface). The image of a young girl seated on what appears to be some form of public transportation -- whether it's a subway or a bus, it's not too clear. She seems to be dressed for some sort of party and in her hand she's clutching the string to a balloon, which she watches -- her chin tipped, her face raised.
Phillipa's handwriting adorns the back: his name and his address and a short note, along with some directions. ]
Francis-
The exhibition I'm doing for juries opens on Thursday at the college arts center. I think it's meant to be something like a party, which might not be your kind of thing. (I don't blame you, me neither.) But if you feel like popping in to take a look I'd
( ... )
✆ CALL | 6.31 PM falsitiesOctober 17 2011, 20:30:16 UTC
[ From his bedroom, Francis can still hear Sal and Vic laughing over the buzz of the TV. It's white noise that he's learned to live with, even if he isn't entirely happy with it (not now, not ever). It's just another stain on the wall, albeit one that grows day by day. When the phone rings, it's a welcome respite. (He wonders if they register the sound at all.)
Four, five rings go by before the other end of the line picks up. ]
✆ CALL | 6.31 PM tournoieOctober 17 2011, 20:37:36 UTC
[ There's a knot in her chest (this never changes and never will) and the longer the phone rings, the tighter it winds. Tighter and tighter - an anxiety, a disappointment threatening to happen - until suddenly it releases (not free, but loose; a temporary reprieve). Phillipa does't realize she'd been holding her breath until she lets it go. To Francis it sounds like a little cough. ]
Francis, hi. It's me, it's Phillipa, I'm not- [ She catches herself before she apologizes for something she's not even sure she's done yet. ] I mean-hi.
✆ CALL | 6.31 PM falsitiesOctober 17 2011, 20:45:54 UTC
Oh. [ It's said in surprise, not in disappointment. ]
Hi.
[ Another beat. Clicking noises from his end of the line, as he unhooks the phone from the wall and starts to bring it out onto the stairwell behind the apartment building. Sal and Vic can be heard in the background just a moment longer - then the opening and shutting of a door, and there's silence.
Slowly, as if unsure of what is and isn't expected in a phone conversation: ] How are you?
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Phillipa finds herself exactly where she needs to be fifteen minutes early. She'd considered walking (it's not far from a stop on her usual bus line, the 7 now running at half-efficiency as the construction down Broad continues to disrupt her normal commute. In the end, she'd chosen to bike instead -- something of a perilous affair during rush hour, but exceedingly less so in the hours that follow -- so now she's here, more than punctual for once. Her sketchbook, complete with Turner postcard and a few photocopies from her Art in Antiquity textbook shelved away between its pages, is squirreled away in her knapsack beside her along with her phone.
Every so often she checks it, worried perhaps that she's missed a call; everytime she thumbs across the home screen to unlock it, she expects a voicemail to be waiting for her in her inbox. ("Sorry, Phillipa. Have to cancel.") But that call never comes ( ... )
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(He walked. He got out of the house without any trouble, and if he's lucky he'll get back in without any event, either. There's no way Sal won't notice that he's gone, not when there's no one else in the house, but there are days she's less abrasive with him than others.
Before leaving the apartment, he spends a good five minutes in front of a cracked mirror, not out of vanity but out of self-doubt and in part, self-derision. What would she want with you?His hair is combed in a way that suggests making himself presentable isn't something he has cause to worry about often, wearing a sweater pulled over a button-down shirt whose collar only just peeks out. In his hands is the model boat, a foot or so in length and incredibly elaborate for not having been built off of any sort of template, evidence of his meticulous care fully evident. As soon as he spots Phillipa, Francis makes his way over, hesitating for just a moment before taking the seat across from her, placing the boat (and a ( ... )
Reply
The temptation is to simply stare at the boat, to marvel at its meticulous detail and all of the things about Francis it must imply. But for now, she does none of that, forces herself to look at him across the table, her mouth forming the faintest curve upwards.
When Phillipa smiles at him, it's with her eyes. And unlike her mouth it's not just a suggestion, it's a proper smile. ] Hello, Francis.
Reply
(Do you like it? Is it any good?) ]
How - how are you?
Reply
Phillipa's handwriting adorns the back: his name and his address and a short note, along with some directions. ]
Francis-
The exhibition I'm doing for juries opens on Thursday at the college arts center. I think it's meant to be something like a party, which might not be your kind of thing. (I don't blame you, me neither.) But if you feel like popping in to take a look I'd ( ... )
Reply
Reply
Four, five rings go by before the other end of the line picks up. ]
- Hello?
Reply
Francis, hi. It's me, it's Phillipa, I'm not- [ She catches herself before she apologizes for something she's not even sure she's done yet. ] I mean-hi.
Reply
Hi.
[ Another beat. Clicking noises from his end of the line, as he unhooks the phone from the wall and starts to bring it out onto the stairwell behind the apartment building. Sal and Vic can be heard in the background just a moment longer - then the opening and shutting of a door, and there's silence.
Slowly, as if unsure of what is and isn't expected in a phone conversation: ] How are you?
Reply
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