636

[palantiriell]

Carol Bloomquist was dead. Everyone in town agreed that this was a dreadful shame. Folks turned out from miles around to visit her funeral, to mutter their condolences on her only estranged living niece, and to leave prayer cards swiped with damp earth near her grave. In such a land of muted Christians and poor November weather and too-white

Comments

237

[yoursetcetera]

The squirrels near David's studio baffle me, because I've never seen anything like them. One runs through my path fearlessly: if I walked a bit faster I might have stepped on it. I've never known squirrels to come anywhere near that close to people. They could possibly be rabid? I have no idea. I'm keeping my distance, though, even if - especially if - they don't keep theirs.

Luckily, however, today I manage to navigate myself right to the front door of David's building without incident. (If by "incident" I mean "squirrel-related tragedy". And I do.) Getting in? Another story entirely, another type of incident entirely. First of all, the key David's given me doesn't work. So I try knocking. And when nobody comes after a solid two minutes of knocking, I kick the door. Repeatedly. I cause injury to my foot. Then, in a flash of paranoia, I check to make sure I've got the right building.

I have. Which means that, for once, the thing that's wrong isn't my fault. Which means that it's probably David's. I'm not sure this bodes well for the rest of the day, really.

On a last-ditch effort, I try the key again. See, they call it "last-ditch" because it's always the last thing you do. Because when you do it, it works, and you stop.

I was turning the door handle the wrong way.

Fuck you. I'm not nervous.

Re: 237

[palantiriell]

wow. that is insanely perfect.