Rebooted (aka What up, Dean?)
Things were... weird. Very weird. Weirder than usual. Maybe the weirdest ever. No, not the weirdest ever, but weirder than average.
More and most weird?
She was intelligent and shouldn't be spending so much time thinking about grammar, of all things.
It's not that people actually needed her to be chatty, usually preferring she be quiet during the entire painting session. No matter that part of her artistic process was rambling at people when the need struck.
Lately, though, she'd noticed a change in most of her portrait work. She didn't want to talk, was taking to working from photographs instead. She always sat with the person making the request, asked some rote questions and some that came about organically during the conversation. Then she went off on her own to paint things, preferring the solitude at the moment.
She wondered if it was clouding her work. The last few portraits had been of those lost in attacks. Both had ended up more maudlin than they probably should have been, more so than she'd intended anyway. The people who had commissioned them seemed content, if teary-eyed, so they must have been a success.
It was starting to be more draining on Orla, though.
She needed to get it out. How was a whole other question.
Retail therapy? Coffee?
Both?
This was a lot easier back before Seamus and she had ended their thing. Granted, that had been a while and they were still fairly close, but sometimes Orla was a little nostalgic for some sort of familiarity and connection you didn't find in bars or the club scene.
That was an issue for another day. Today, she was going for coffee, heading into the nearest cafe, grinning as the barista behind the counter started making her macchiato as soon as she entered. She skipped the line and slipped him the typical price with a generous tip, trying and fairly easily ignoring the snide looks from the less-than-regular patrons still waiting in the line she'd just completely skipped.
More and most weird?
She was intelligent and shouldn't be spending so much time thinking about grammar, of all things.
It's not that people actually needed her to be chatty, usually preferring she be quiet during the entire painting session. No matter that part of her artistic process was rambling at people when the need struck.
Lately, though, she'd noticed a change in most of her portrait work. She didn't want to talk, was taking to working from photographs instead. She always sat with the person making the request, asked some rote questions and some that came about organically during the conversation. Then she went off on her own to paint things, preferring the solitude at the moment.
She wondered if it was clouding her work. The last few portraits had been of those lost in attacks. Both had ended up more maudlin than they probably should have been, more so than she'd intended anyway. The people who had commissioned them seemed content, if teary-eyed, so they must have been a success.
It was starting to be more draining on Orla, though.
She needed to get it out. How was a whole other question.
Retail therapy? Coffee?
Both?
This was a lot easier back before Seamus and she had ended their thing. Granted, that had been a while and they were still fairly close, but sometimes Orla was a little nostalgic for some sort of familiarity and connection you didn't find in bars or the club scene.
That was an issue for another day. Today, she was going for coffee, heading into the nearest cafe, grinning as the barista behind the counter started making her macchiato as soon as she entered. She skipped the line and slipped him the typical price with a generous tip, trying and fairly easily ignoring the snide looks from the less-than-regular patrons still waiting in the line she'd just completely skipped.