i believe; that's why i'm running.
Hasi has filled her day with a client (in the morning, three hours, went smoothly; she doesn't think she seems too much like a beginner), a shower, lounging around her bedroom while chatting to a stressed-sounding Henry over the phone, and now she is standing barefoot on the balcony of her apartment, overlooking the traffic. She's pensive and quiet on the cold tile, with her hair loose, dressed in a casual little grey dress with long sleeves and a very wide neckline that means most of one shoulder is exposed and a good portion of her back, a cigarette in one hand. Inside, there's one of her much-loved dessert martinis half-finished on a table, but she's ignoring it for now, leaning against the balcony edge with her hands propped up against the side, ash trailing to the concrete below. She's conscious of passers-by, though, and makes sure no one gets hit.
People stare at her, sometimes, when they walk by - it's hard not to for some types, noticing her bare legs (the dress is not tight, but it is short) and her big kohl-lined eyes, the insane black curls and hint of skin at her shoulder. She has a knack for being effortlessly cinematic, and the fact that she lives in a beautiful old building helps matters, especially paired with the deep blue edge of dusk that's beginning to creep in at around 6:30 PM. She leans further over the edge, watching a mother call in her two young sons - twins, by all appearances, though it's too far to tell for sure - down the street, and lifts one hand to take a drag from the djarum black between her fingers.