The boulevard is not that bad.
It was early evening when, with "Tiny Dancer" playing full-volume from her gramophone, Penny pulled herself out of one of the bus's windows and climbed up to the roof. The night was quiet, as much so as nights around here were, cooler than the month before had been; in Russell's shirt tied up to expose her waist and a pair of short denim shorts, she lay on her back on the metal of the roof, one foot twirling absently in time to the music.
For as much time as she felt wanting to move, there was nothing more she wanted in that moment -- nothing plausible, anyway -- than this sort of stillness. She doubted it would last long, but she felt resigned, in a sense, to what she had here, what she'd tried to hard not to accept. She couldn't hide from anything, not anymore. People came and went, the island changed and went back to normal, and she'd stayed, something she hadn't even thought herself capable of. And for the first time, the thought was calming, unexpectedly so.
Back home, now, it would have been 1974, and all Penny had was her imagination to think of how things might be. Stillwater would've still been together, she liked to pretend, William was writing full-time for Rolling Stone, and, the more masochistic part of her was convinced, chances were good that Russell and Leslie would've remarried, probably had a few kids, a nice house in the suburbs. It wasn't especially comforting, but she was sick of pretending otherwise, sick of pretending that somehow, somewhere, he'd be holding on to her, that he'd show up (again) one day and everything would be the way it was meant to. She'd avoided the subject for so long that she hadn't even realized when she'd given in.
It had been a year since she'd shown up on the island.
Hold me closer, tiny dancer.
[Timed to later this evening, and slowtimey for a bit while I'm still at school. Late tags are more than welcome up through the weekend.]
For as much time as she felt wanting to move, there was nothing more she wanted in that moment -- nothing plausible, anyway -- than this sort of stillness. She doubted it would last long, but she felt resigned, in a sense, to what she had here, what she'd tried to hard not to accept. She couldn't hide from anything, not anymore. People came and went, the island changed and went back to normal, and she'd stayed, something she hadn't even thought herself capable of. And for the first time, the thought was calming, unexpectedly so.
Back home, now, it would have been 1974, and all Penny had was her imagination to think of how things might be. Stillwater would've still been together, she liked to pretend, William was writing full-time for Rolling Stone, and, the more masochistic part of her was convinced, chances were good that Russell and Leslie would've remarried, probably had a few kids, a nice house in the suburbs. It wasn't especially comforting, but she was sick of pretending otherwise, sick of pretending that somehow, somewhere, he'd be holding on to her, that he'd show up (again) one day and everything would be the way it was meant to. She'd avoided the subject for so long that she hadn't even realized when she'd given in.
It had been a year since she'd shown up on the island.
Hold me closer, tiny dancer.
[Timed to later this evening, and slowtimey for a bit while I'm still at school. Late tags are more than welcome up through the weekend.]