And... Where have you Been?
WHO: Ivan and Gilbert
WHEN: September 8th, 2006
WHERE: Ivan's (and Gilbert's temporary) Apartment
WHAT: FLASHBACK: Gilbert arrives home late one night. Ivan has Questions and quite the Temper.
Ivan was a patient person. Or rather, he liked to think of himself as such. He always stood patiently in the kitchen, elbows against the counter, and stared down the doorknob until it twisted. If the doorknob did not twist, he paced around the coffee table in the living room. Evening displays of impatience often involved double-checking his watch, reading over the stack of files on the kitchen counter top, and revisiting his personal ad in the paper for the need of a secretary. He recently purchased property a half-hour's walk from his apartment; boxes stood by the door full of old textbooks, heirlooms, and graduation gifts to late display on the empty shelves. He knew deep in his heart that he couldn't afford a desk yet, even after hours of slaving away at the flower shop - even though Aunt Catherine was so kind to help pay for his schooling.
And after mulling over his days troubles, and knowing that they would haunt his dreams and revisit him when he awoke the next morning, Ivan would stop pacing, sit on the couch, and skim over the pages of one of the books in the boxes by the door. None of the words registered, Russian or English, as the only letters ever popping out of the page were G - I - L - B - E - R - T.
If the doorknob would turn, Ivan would forget about the book and get immediately to his feet to instill his superiority over the German as he entered, but today, he remained with his eyes downcast at the book and let Gilbert drift in and out of his peripheral vision.
Today, Ivan was fed up with the late arrivals. "Where have you been, Gilbert? You missed dinner. It's still sitting on the kitchen table, cold as ice."
WHEN: September 8th, 2006
WHERE: Ivan's (and Gilbert's temporary) Apartment
WHAT: FLASHBACK: Gilbert arrives home late one night. Ivan has Questions and quite the Temper.
Ivan was a patient person. Or rather, he liked to think of himself as such. He always stood patiently in the kitchen, elbows against the counter, and stared down the doorknob until it twisted. If the doorknob did not twist, he paced around the coffee table in the living room. Evening displays of impatience often involved double-checking his watch, reading over the stack of files on the kitchen counter top, and revisiting his personal ad in the paper for the need of a secretary. He recently purchased property a half-hour's walk from his apartment; boxes stood by the door full of old textbooks, heirlooms, and graduation gifts to late display on the empty shelves. He knew deep in his heart that he couldn't afford a desk yet, even after hours of slaving away at the flower shop - even though Aunt Catherine was so kind to help pay for his schooling.
And after mulling over his days troubles, and knowing that they would haunt his dreams and revisit him when he awoke the next morning, Ivan would stop pacing, sit on the couch, and skim over the pages of one of the books in the boxes by the door. None of the words registered, Russian or English, as the only letters ever popping out of the page were G - I - L - B - E - R - T.
If the doorknob would turn, Ivan would forget about the book and get immediately to his feet to instill his superiority over the German as he entered, but today, he remained with his eyes downcast at the book and let Gilbert drift in and out of his peripheral vision.
Today, Ivan was fed up with the late arrivals. "Where have you been, Gilbert? You missed dinner. It's still sitting on the kitchen table, cold as ice."