probably the longest fifteen minutes of my life; drabble
It's interesting, really, to sit and listen to architects and contractors come together and pretend to like each other to do last minute project stuff. For about a minute. So after that minute passed, this what I ended up doing;
they leave you in cars
friday night lights. lyla; tyra. last days of summer. 318 words. g.
Some days, she figures, she’s nowhere near having it than she was, in that car driving back and away from everything else she’s ever known.
State’s still stickin’ to her thighs, across the table with Tyra staring back, fingering the ends of her hair. Short hair, Lyla’s crossing with some unattainable awe, short hair and still the same - it’s the exposure, the lack of caring about that exposure, and that same sense of admiration that has Lyla feeling like a fool half the time anyway.
“So Jesus, huh?” And Tyra’s lazy with the boredom, tossing a soft smile, amused or not amused because they are not friends. Anything. Nothing. It’s all irreversible in the end, instead, keep it mind this way; they occasionally run into each other. So it happens.
She shrugs, still the same, past the curious reveries of finding someone else to talk to, not relate, since it’s more than kind of lonely; she’s lost to footing, still looking for it even though an open door’s become wider to her, super wide, and she’s not even sure if it’s it.
Her lips part, chapped and chaste, too dry, “Jesus,” she murmurs, “Jesus and praising and saving and breakin’ away from all that hedonism so that I can go to heaven. Or something.”
There’s no laugh from the opposite end, maybe a smile or a smirk, but Lyla’s keeping her gaze to the counter, to the apple-paste dinning mats and a lifetime more of seeing this. It’s supposed to be the answer, it’s supposed to be, and she’s gonna find it. She swears or something - that’s kinda bad, swearing and skinny jeans.
“And how’s that going?” Leaving, leaning forward, Tyra’s in her space again, ample for pushing and shoving; it’s the very nature of them, if you want to call it that, and Lyla’s occasionally glad for other, odd and old habits.
She lies, of course. “It’s there.”
they leave you in cars
friday night lights. lyla; tyra. last days of summer. 318 words. g.
Some days, she figures, she’s nowhere near having it than she was, in that car driving back and away from everything else she’s ever known.
State’s still stickin’ to her thighs, across the table with Tyra staring back, fingering the ends of her hair. Short hair, Lyla’s crossing with some unattainable awe, short hair and still the same - it’s the exposure, the lack of caring about that exposure, and that same sense of admiration that has Lyla feeling like a fool half the time anyway.
“So Jesus, huh?” And Tyra’s lazy with the boredom, tossing a soft smile, amused or not amused because they are not friends. Anything. Nothing. It’s all irreversible in the end, instead, keep it mind this way; they occasionally run into each other. So it happens.
She shrugs, still the same, past the curious reveries of finding someone else to talk to, not relate, since it’s more than kind of lonely; she’s lost to footing, still looking for it even though an open door’s become wider to her, super wide, and she’s not even sure if it’s it.
Her lips part, chapped and chaste, too dry, “Jesus,” she murmurs, “Jesus and praising and saving and breakin’ away from all that hedonism so that I can go to heaven. Or something.”
There’s no laugh from the opposite end, maybe a smile or a smirk, but Lyla’s keeping her gaze to the counter, to the apple-paste dinning mats and a lifetime more of seeing this. It’s supposed to be the answer, it’s supposed to be, and she’s gonna find it. She swears or something - that’s kinda bad, swearing and skinny jeans.
“And how’s that going?” Leaving, leaning forward, Tyra’s in her space again, ample for pushing and shoving; it’s the very nature of them, if you want to call it that, and Lyla’s occasionally glad for other, odd and old habits.
She lies, of course. “It’s there.”