(no subject)
Just got back from the concert, it was ok. I hope you don't mind if I post my half-story here, I think I need to get everything re: that in order if I'm even going to consider trying to use it for Monday. Plus that studies of religion bullshit... sigh. So anyway;
She lay on her back, her feet pointing back towards the crumbling city. The sky was full, but her eyes were closed, and she was aware of each blade of grass as it bent in the wind and brushed her skin. From the bottom of the hill a crow called. She lay almost motionless until the sun was three-quarters hidden below the horizon. Stretching, she cast her eyes over the streets that unrolled across the landscape. She checked her phone; no calls, no messages. She shrugged, affecting nonchalance for the crows and the clouds. Running her fingers through her hair to shake out the grass, she shivered slightly.
"Coffee, please." she said quietly. The man behind the counter leaned over, turning his ear towards her. "Coffee." she repeated.
"No kidding, darling." He began to go through the familiar motions with a steady hand. Hers shook reaching out to take the paper cup he offered. He caught her eye and held it. She could feel the blood rushing towards her feet. Had she run with him? Had he run from her? Reluctantly he broke the silence. "You have a good night, sweetheart." With three steps she was out the door and back into the cool, open street.
She landed hard, jarring her knee. Her eyes scanned the now nearly pitch-black garden, lingering in the deeper shadow of the old shed. When she was sure, she ran for it, throwing herself across the lawn, through an empty doorframe and into the tiled hallway. Her eyes darted, again searching in the dark, waiting for her heart to slow. She began climbing the long, shallow staircase, pausing every third step to signal, three sharp knocks. She reached the landing and waited an agonising minute. From behind the heavy door came one of her favourite sounds. "June?"
"Yeah it's me, Fletcher." Her second favourite sound, the five bolts sliding back, and the complaining hinges, and then the door was open and she fell inside.
"You can't keep doing this to me, June."
"Yeah." she agreed, shrugging. With a frown Fletcher gestured down the corridor to where a half-loaf of bread, some sausage, and an empty pot stood in the kitchen. The silver ashtray, in need of emptying, sat there too, evidence of his concern. "You can choose what soup, if you'd like." offered June by way of apology as they moved down the hall. Fletcher considered the row of cans seriously, eventually selecting the green one. "Pea and ham." With a sigh, June accepted her punishment, emptying the contents into the pan. For a while then they just waited, Fletcher balanced on a spindly stool, June pressing her tired back against the warm stove.
When she is asleep she is running with them again, swinging a golf club with sweet abandon. Having lived so long out of touch with destruction, playing out the path of spiderweb cracks across shopfronts and windshields and the ring of glass shards hitting concrete moves her to tears. More often than not these feral dreams wake Fletcher, and they sit up. Sometimes they talk about that time, after the Disintegration and before she met him. He sees her dreams of this time as a betrayal of the life they have built. No matter how much she doesn't want to, no matter how much she loves the way they live now, she can't stop returning.
Pretty gay. But it's the best I can do. Now I must well and truly go to bed.
She lay on her back, her feet pointing back towards the crumbling city. The sky was full, but her eyes were closed, and she was aware of each blade of grass as it bent in the wind and brushed her skin. From the bottom of the hill a crow called. She lay almost motionless until the sun was three-quarters hidden below the horizon. Stretching, she cast her eyes over the streets that unrolled across the landscape. She checked her phone; no calls, no messages. She shrugged, affecting nonchalance for the crows and the clouds. Running her fingers through her hair to shake out the grass, she shivered slightly.
"Coffee, please." she said quietly. The man behind the counter leaned over, turning his ear towards her. "Coffee." she repeated.
"No kidding, darling." He began to go through the familiar motions with a steady hand. Hers shook reaching out to take the paper cup he offered. He caught her eye and held it. She could feel the blood rushing towards her feet. Had she run with him? Had he run from her? Reluctantly he broke the silence. "You have a good night, sweetheart." With three steps she was out the door and back into the cool, open street.
She landed hard, jarring her knee. Her eyes scanned the now nearly pitch-black garden, lingering in the deeper shadow of the old shed. When she was sure, she ran for it, throwing herself across the lawn, through an empty doorframe and into the tiled hallway. Her eyes darted, again searching in the dark, waiting for her heart to slow. She began climbing the long, shallow staircase, pausing every third step to signal, three sharp knocks. She reached the landing and waited an agonising minute. From behind the heavy door came one of her favourite sounds. "June?"
"Yeah it's me, Fletcher." Her second favourite sound, the five bolts sliding back, and the complaining hinges, and then the door was open and she fell inside.
"You can't keep doing this to me, June."
"Yeah." she agreed, shrugging. With a frown Fletcher gestured down the corridor to where a half-loaf of bread, some sausage, and an empty pot stood in the kitchen. The silver ashtray, in need of emptying, sat there too, evidence of his concern. "You can choose what soup, if you'd like." offered June by way of apology as they moved down the hall. Fletcher considered the row of cans seriously, eventually selecting the green one. "Pea and ham." With a sigh, June accepted her punishment, emptying the contents into the pan. For a while then they just waited, Fletcher balanced on a spindly stool, June pressing her tired back against the warm stove.
When she is asleep she is running with them again, swinging a golf club with sweet abandon. Having lived so long out of touch with destruction, playing out the path of spiderweb cracks across shopfronts and windshields and the ring of glass shards hitting concrete moves her to tears. More often than not these feral dreams wake Fletcher, and they sit up. Sometimes they talk about that time, after the Disintegration and before she met him. He sees her dreams of this time as a betrayal of the life they have built. No matter how much she doesn't want to, no matter how much she loves the way they live now, she can't stop returning.
Pretty gay. But it's the best I can do. Now I must well and truly go to bed.