// 020. [video]
[The flat behind her is a contradiction of sorts - immaculate disarray lit by the flicker of candlelight.
A tower (no, towers) of books stacked by the tiny chaise, more haphazardly lying on the floor - some open, some closed, (one torn apart) one currently home to a lowburning pool of wax that sputters out as the Forge turns on.
Neater stacks of records beside the phonograph - the sounds of one drifting up and into the inconstant light, a lazy note catching the Forge here and there.
She leans forward on a sea of pillows strewn across the floor, copper and celadon, scrollwork and ombre, her usual smile misplaced. Curled up on a particularly overstuffed pillow is a particularly overstuffed sleeping white bulldog. (No, really, he's huge. And snoring very lightly.)]
There were fireflies when I awoke here for the first time. A year ago. Has it been that long?
[Watching the smoke of the dead candle, silent before continuing.]
They died, like all things do.
[A beat, and:]
Do you think they'll return? I'd like it if they did. Other things return, and they were never half as kind to me as the fireflies.
[Is that an absinthe bottle on the piano? Indeed it is, but it's mostly full if you care to look closely. (Sheet music, too.) As is the glass in her hand that she now raises to her lips. A swirl of milky green passes the screen as she moves, fingers taptaptaping against curve and stem.
As the music ends, she reaches back - inky finger extending across the room to redirect the phonograph's needle - restarting the tune - pausing over the piano to gingerly strike a key before retracting.]
Would anyone care to play for me? Or ...sing to me, perhaps? I don't have so many stories of my own to share, but I...
...I could pay you for your trouble.
Although I'd hope I wouldn't have to. Being my birthday, and all~
[The last smile is coy, but lacks the venomous undercurrent she often displays.]
A tower (no, towers) of books stacked by the tiny chaise, more haphazardly lying on the floor - some open, some closed, (one torn apart) one currently home to a lowburning pool of wax that sputters out as the Forge turns on.
Neater stacks of records beside the phonograph - the sounds of one drifting up and into the inconstant light, a lazy note catching the Forge here and there.
She leans forward on a sea of pillows strewn across the floor, copper and celadon, scrollwork and ombre, her usual smile misplaced. Curled up on a particularly overstuffed pillow is a particularly overstuffed sleeping white bulldog. (No, really, he's huge. And snoring very lightly.)]
There were fireflies when I awoke here for the first time. A year ago. Has it been that long?
[Watching the smoke of the dead candle, silent before continuing.]
They died, like all things do.
[A beat, and:]
Do you think they'll return? I'd like it if they did. Other things return, and they were never half as kind to me as the fireflies.
[Is that an absinthe bottle on the piano? Indeed it is, but it's mostly full if you care to look closely. (Sheet music, too.) As is the glass in her hand that she now raises to her lips. A swirl of milky green passes the screen as she moves, fingers taptaptaping against curve and stem.
As the music ends, she reaches back - inky finger extending across the room to redirect the phonograph's needle - restarting the tune - pausing over the piano to gingerly strike a key before retracting.]
Would anyone care to play for me? Or ...sing to me, perhaps? I don't have so many stories of my own to share, but I...
...I could pay you for your trouble.
Although I'd hope I wouldn't have to. Being my birthday, and all~
[The last smile is coy, but lacks the venomous undercurrent she often displays.]