(no subject)
When Emma comes down from her home on the mountain, she generally makes it quick, having no desire to spend longer than necessary out among everyone else when she no longer has classes to teach. The few people she wants to see know where to find her, and the long months of island life haven't made her hate the place any less.
Quite the contrary - the longer she's here, the further away her own life seems to be, the more she loathes whatever runs this island for taking her from it. If there are any answers to be had, she's yet to touch upon them, and what few people she comes to like (or at least tolerate) have a tendency to disappear, a reminder that there's really no point in caring about anyone, least of all here.
The exception to this rule of brief visits finds her out on the southern beach, a stretch that tends to be quiet more often than not thanks to a spate of disappearances earlier in the year. Her roots are growing out fast, but if they have to at all, she wishes they'd grow faster; this stage partway between blonde and brunette is just so awkward and irritating. There's just no way to stay blonde with her dye gone. There's only one thing she can do for that, and it merely eases the transition.
With lemon juice combed through her hair and sunblock vigorously applied, Emma lies flat on her stomach on a towel in the sand. Initially propped up to read, she's all but dozing on the book in question when a spray of sand attracts her attention. Lifting a hand to shield her eyes, she looks up, annoyed less by the sand (which is, after all, just a natural part of being out here) than she is by the unexpected company. "Would you watch where you're going?"
[Set to Thursday morning/afternoon. Now closed.]
Quite the contrary - the longer she's here, the further away her own life seems to be, the more she loathes whatever runs this island for taking her from it. If there are any answers to be had, she's yet to touch upon them, and what few people she comes to like (or at least tolerate) have a tendency to disappear, a reminder that there's really no point in caring about anyone, least of all here.
The exception to this rule of brief visits finds her out on the southern beach, a stretch that tends to be quiet more often than not thanks to a spate of disappearances earlier in the year. Her roots are growing out fast, but if they have to at all, she wishes they'd grow faster; this stage partway between blonde and brunette is just so awkward and irritating. There's just no way to stay blonde with her dye gone. There's only one thing she can do for that, and it merely eases the transition.
With lemon juice combed through her hair and sunblock vigorously applied, Emma lies flat on her stomach on a towel in the sand. Initially propped up to read, she's all but dozing on the book in question when a spray of sand attracts her attention. Lifting a hand to shield her eyes, she looks up, annoyed less by the sand (which is, after all, just a natural part of being out here) than she is by the unexpected company. "Would you watch where you're going?"
[Set to Thursday morning/afternoon. Now closed.]