[Fic] Nana: A Day in the Life
Spoilers: none
Disclaimer: Nana belongs to Yazawa Ai, who is my favoritest mangaka in the world except possibly maybe Minekura Kazuya, and I love it to pieces and everyone should read it.
Notes: This was originally going to be a Christmas present for Mely. Then it was going to be a birthday present. Now it's just sort of random.
1.
You sit in the alcove and read. You're looking for mentions of Blast in the paper; there's a small piece buried in the Entertainment section. Your coffee is cooling, the grounds settling to the bottom. The dark liquid, untempered by cream, looks strange in the delicate cup. You could pour yourself more from the urn on the table, but you'd rather just look at it. It's ornate and silver, something Nana picked out. The cups were Nana's choice as well; you wouldn't have picked out a set as delicate and small as this one.
Still, you like the set, and you like the way the table looks when it's set for two.
Splashes of water and some very off-key singing mean that Nana's still in the bathtub.
2.
Nana bursts into the kitchen with a cloud of strawberry-peach-scented steam.
"I love my new shampoo!" she exclaims.
You look up and smile at her. Somehow, her pink and yellow bathrobe -- more a towel, come to think -- manages to match the scent of her shampoo. You'll never understand how she can wear three-inch shoes with a bathrobe ("It feels so movie-star-like to wander around like this!" she'll declare) or how she can still be supressing a yawn after forty-five minutes submerged in hot water.
Mundane chatter fills the kitchen, talk of movies and coats, new CDs.
Nana's spoon clinks against the edges of her cup as she stirs in the cream, slurps occasionally interrupting her near-monologue.
You make faces when she goes on about how cute Takumi of Trapnest is, and you act shocked when she defends her newest purchases, but she continues to brim over with happiness at nothing at all.
3.
Nana's heels clip-clop down the wooden stairs while your boots thump out your steps. The conversation, still primarily being lead by Nana, has now turned to her new blue dress. Apparently it's new. And ruffly. And extremely cute. And irresistable. And, of course, expensive. You like Vivienne Westwood, but you're still amazed by how much Nana can talk about a single dress.
You can smell her perfume and her shampoo and her lotion and her many skin care products over the smoke of your cigarette. It's an odd blend: the sting of alcohol, powdery florals, strawberries and peaches, all overlaid by the comforting harshness of tobacco.
The sun warms the back of your beat-up leather jacket.
You open the door, and Nana peeks out behind you.
"Sun!" she says.
The sky is so bright it almost hurts your eyes, and the clouds are just a little too perfect.
You wait for Nana to step out, and the two of you head off. You have nothing specific in mind; Nana probably has twenty separate ideas of what she wants to do, all of them conflicting. In the end, she'll probably suggest something completely random, and you'll argue a little, but go.
And you'll both have a good time.
The day stretches ahead of you, luxuriously promising. You pause to smile at her for no reason at all. She interrupts herself mid-sentence to smile back, and you head off together, Nana and Nana, hand in hand.
Disclaimer: Nana belongs to Yazawa Ai, who is my favoritest mangaka in the world except possibly maybe Minekura Kazuya, and I love it to pieces and everyone should read it.
Notes: This was originally going to be a Christmas present for Mely. Then it was going to be a birthday present. Now it's just sort of random.
1.
You sit in the alcove and read. You're looking for mentions of Blast in the paper; there's a small piece buried in the Entertainment section. Your coffee is cooling, the grounds settling to the bottom. The dark liquid, untempered by cream, looks strange in the delicate cup. You could pour yourself more from the urn on the table, but you'd rather just look at it. It's ornate and silver, something Nana picked out. The cups were Nana's choice as well; you wouldn't have picked out a set as delicate and small as this one.
Still, you like the set, and you like the way the table looks when it's set for two.
Splashes of water and some very off-key singing mean that Nana's still in the bathtub.
2.
Nana bursts into the kitchen with a cloud of strawberry-peach-scented steam.
"I love my new shampoo!" she exclaims.
You look up and smile at her. Somehow, her pink and yellow bathrobe -- more a towel, come to think -- manages to match the scent of her shampoo. You'll never understand how she can wear three-inch shoes with a bathrobe ("It feels so movie-star-like to wander around like this!" she'll declare) or how she can still be supressing a yawn after forty-five minutes submerged in hot water.
Mundane chatter fills the kitchen, talk of movies and coats, new CDs.
Nana's spoon clinks against the edges of her cup as she stirs in the cream, slurps occasionally interrupting her near-monologue.
You make faces when she goes on about how cute Takumi of Trapnest is, and you act shocked when she defends her newest purchases, but she continues to brim over with happiness at nothing at all.
3.
Nana's heels clip-clop down the wooden stairs while your boots thump out your steps. The conversation, still primarily being lead by Nana, has now turned to her new blue dress. Apparently it's new. And ruffly. And extremely cute. And irresistable. And, of course, expensive. You like Vivienne Westwood, but you're still amazed by how much Nana can talk about a single dress.
You can smell her perfume and her shampoo and her lotion and her many skin care products over the smoke of your cigarette. It's an odd blend: the sting of alcohol, powdery florals, strawberries and peaches, all overlaid by the comforting harshness of tobacco.
The sun warms the back of your beat-up leather jacket.
You open the door, and Nana peeks out behind you.
"Sun!" she says.
The sky is so bright it almost hurts your eyes, and the clouds are just a little too perfect.
You wait for Nana to step out, and the two of you head off. You have nothing specific in mind; Nana probably has twenty separate ideas of what she wants to do, all of them conflicting. In the end, she'll probably suggest something completely random, and you'll argue a little, but go.
And you'll both have a good time.
The day stretches ahead of you, luxuriously promising. You pause to smile at her for no reason at all. She interrupts herself mid-sentence to smile back, and you head off together, Nana and Nana, hand in hand.