(no subject)
Over the course of time, Gatsby had fallen into something of a routine, one that wasn't terribly exciting but served him well enough. (He couldn't say that he didn't now and then feel a sense of boredom, but that was something to be relieved in the company of books or an evening spent out by the lake.)
If asked, he would say he liked the bar well enough, citing Lady Bar as a perfectly swell entity and doling out an appropriate number of compliments in regards to everyone he'd met so far. Truth be told, however, he couldn't say he had yet grown to like the place, or dislike it. He supposed it had something to do with his general detachment as to the proceedings (he'd known there'd been a flu or some sort of virus going around, and hadn't shown any signs of caring beyond staying in his room, which was something he was wont to do anyhow), and hadn't, as of yet, done anything to change that.
Today found him down in the main bar, sitting with his legs crossed in one of the armchairs, accompanied by a glass of water, a drawing pad, and a pencil. For the moment, he sat with his head resting on one hand, staring with his head tilted at what he had so far on the drawing pad, which amounted to the vague outline of a human head. Did he still remember what Daisy had looked like? It was a question he'd asked himself more than once since coming here, and one he wouldn't admit to having thought on had anyone asked.
Every now and then, he idly drew another line, brow furrowing slightly in concentration given that drawing wasn't something that he did often, and that drawing a memory was a more difficult task than he had anticipated.
If asked, he would say he liked the bar well enough, citing Lady Bar as a perfectly swell entity and doling out an appropriate number of compliments in regards to everyone he'd met so far. Truth be told, however, he couldn't say he had yet grown to like the place, or dislike it. He supposed it had something to do with his general detachment as to the proceedings (he'd known there'd been a flu or some sort of virus going around, and hadn't shown any signs of caring beyond staying in his room, which was something he was wont to do anyhow), and hadn't, as of yet, done anything to change that.
Today found him down in the main bar, sitting with his legs crossed in one of the armchairs, accompanied by a glass of water, a drawing pad, and a pencil. For the moment, he sat with his head resting on one hand, staring with his head tilted at what he had so far on the drawing pad, which amounted to the vague outline of a human head. Did he still remember what Daisy had looked like? It was a question he'd asked himself more than once since coming here, and one he wouldn't admit to having thought on had anyone asked.
Every now and then, he idly drew another line, brow furrowing slightly in concentration given that drawing wasn't something that he did often, and that drawing a memory was a more difficult task than he had anticipated.