A Secluded Couch In The Arms Hotel Lobby, Saturday Morning - Give or Take 20 Years
Well, here goes nothin'... See ya in the funny papers, princess...
Francine, eyes still closed, was trying to rub at her forehead while someone was kissing her hand. Wasn't working out so well. That happened when you were still three quarters asleep, and that someone was leaving, and...
"Wait! Color woman! Take me with you! Don't leave me here!"
Well. That woke her up, enough to sit bolt upright on the ...couch where she'd fallen asleep. At least she could reach her forehead now, which was good, because it ached - like every other part of her. Black-and-white superheroines might feel no pain after a late flight, a later call home to check in on their daughter (with their husband was a lost cause, but somehow Francine had managed to ask if he was home yet with a straight face, even if she'd already known what the answer would be) and five hours sleep on a hotel lobby couch, but Francine Peters-Silver was no superheroine.
She sure as hell wasn't 20 years younger and 40 pounds lighter, with longer hair and a white streak that she'd been dyeing away since before Ashley was born, and she was pretty sure superheroines didn't get hangovers from airline cocktails either, even more than a few of them. Flying in planes used to just make her nervous, but that was before... Francine shook her head, which was an achey mistake, but just one more on top of the giant pile that was this weekend. What was she even doing here? What had possessed her to think this was a good idea? What had possessed her mother, of all people, who usually preferred to pretend Francine's last two years of high school never happened, to suggest that she come back for this reunion?
Francine stretched, also a mistake, and pushed her way to her feet. Now that she was here and awake, she might as well check in.
[OOC: Establishy, but also open if anyone who's not a miniscule blonde would like to run into her before the mixer.]
Francine, eyes still closed, was trying to rub at her forehead while someone was kissing her hand. Wasn't working out so well. That happened when you were still three quarters asleep, and that someone was leaving, and...
"Wait! Color woman! Take me with you! Don't leave me here!"
Well. That woke her up, enough to sit bolt upright on the ...couch where she'd fallen asleep. At least she could reach her forehead now, which was good, because it ached - like every other part of her. Black-and-white superheroines might feel no pain after a late flight, a later call home to check in on their daughter (with their husband was a lost cause, but somehow Francine had managed to ask if he was home yet with a straight face, even if she'd already known what the answer would be) and five hours sleep on a hotel lobby couch, but Francine Peters-Silver was no superheroine.
She sure as hell wasn't 20 years younger and 40 pounds lighter, with longer hair and a white streak that she'd been dyeing away since before Ashley was born, and she was pretty sure superheroines didn't get hangovers from airline cocktails either, even more than a few of them. Flying in planes used to just make her nervous, but that was before... Francine shook her head, which was an achey mistake, but just one more on top of the giant pile that was this weekend. What was she even doing here? What had possessed her to think this was a good idea? What had possessed her mother, of all people, who usually preferred to pretend Francine's last two years of high school never happened, to suggest that she come back for this reunion?
Francine stretched, also a mistake, and pushed her way to her feet. Now that she was here and awake, she might as well check in.
[OOC: Establishy, but also open if anyone who's not a miniscule blonde would like to run into her before the mixer.]