the subject of inspiration
Muses: Grace Avery (elegance) and Louis Parker (dyspnoeic)
Status: Closed
Date / Time: 09/30, early evening
Rating: G
Type: Thread
Summary: A familiar face in a different city, ten years apart.
He was supposed to be another nameless face in the crowd she had singled out, committing little nuances of his movements and the way his clothes hung on his body into scribbled words. It was all she had to go on, like everyone else she had idly observed and immortalised into her journals over the years. She had refused to part with them, and they sat in a neat, chronological row on a shelf in her bedroom now for easy reference. A friend had once asked if it would've been easier if she had them all typed up instead. Succumb to technology, let the ones and zeros file her thoughts, instantly categorisable and made searchable with a few simple taps and clicks. "There's no romance there," she had replied. Where was the seduction in beeps and pings and endless scrolling, in opening files and folders she could not physically touch? Where was the seduction of turning pages rendered crisp and fragile over time, pages filled with ink and scents and memories? There were no stains and smudges on the computer, no crossed out words and doodles in the margins and indentations where she had tapped her pen in search of the occasional elusive word.
"You're Colin Hightower," she declared twenty minutes into securing a seat on the stool at the farthest end of the counter, the seat that indicated she wasn't there to attract any unwanted attention from the other patrons.
The first encounter had been pleasant enough. Aqua Spirit had been a gem of a find some time into her move to Hong Kong, and she visited the bar every once in a month or so when she grew tired of observing people from coffeehouses and parks. Those milling about in establishments such as bars were of a different category, she had found, and she usually parked herself at the table in the corner from which she could see and hear all, legs folded under her flowing skirts as she sat without care for etiquette. The beer and chicken wings she ordered remained largely untouched on her table as she wrote, and on one such occasion, paid a visit to the bar where she struck up a casual conversation with a bartender who looked oddly familiar.
Six weeks later found her back at Aqua Spirit, this time with a different intention. She was not here to observe and scribble away in her journal, lost in her own constructed world of descriptions and intermittent doodles when words escaped her mental grasp. Her attention was on the bartender behind the counter, chin supported on one palm as she idly stirred her drink, making conversation only when the lull was pronounced enough to allow the staff a more relaxed stance. On a Tuesday evening just after dinner, Grace supposed most of the bar's loyal clientele would rather be at home resting.
"You were twenty-eight, recently engaged to Ariadne Stewart, a plain Jane with a big heart," she continued, reciting the little story she had made up for the bartender named Louis nearly ten years ago in London, lips curved into a smile filled with playfulness and curiosity. Time could have distorted her memory, of course, but Grace could almost swear the man looked exactly the same then as he did now.
Status: Closed
Date / Time: 09/30, early evening
Rating: G
Type: Thread
Summary: A familiar face in a different city, ten years apart.
He was supposed to be another nameless face in the crowd she had singled out, committing little nuances of his movements and the way his clothes hung on his body into scribbled words. It was all she had to go on, like everyone else she had idly observed and immortalised into her journals over the years. She had refused to part with them, and they sat in a neat, chronological row on a shelf in her bedroom now for easy reference. A friend had once asked if it would've been easier if she had them all typed up instead. Succumb to technology, let the ones and zeros file her thoughts, instantly categorisable and made searchable with a few simple taps and clicks. "There's no romance there," she had replied. Where was the seduction in beeps and pings and endless scrolling, in opening files and folders she could not physically touch? Where was the seduction of turning pages rendered crisp and fragile over time, pages filled with ink and scents and memories? There were no stains and smudges on the computer, no crossed out words and doodles in the margins and indentations where she had tapped her pen in search of the occasional elusive word.
"You're Colin Hightower," she declared twenty minutes into securing a seat on the stool at the farthest end of the counter, the seat that indicated she wasn't there to attract any unwanted attention from the other patrons.
The first encounter had been pleasant enough. Aqua Spirit had been a gem of a find some time into her move to Hong Kong, and she visited the bar every once in a month or so when she grew tired of observing people from coffeehouses and parks. Those milling about in establishments such as bars were of a different category, she had found, and she usually parked herself at the table in the corner from which she could see and hear all, legs folded under her flowing skirts as she sat without care for etiquette. The beer and chicken wings she ordered remained largely untouched on her table as she wrote, and on one such occasion, paid a visit to the bar where she struck up a casual conversation with a bartender who looked oddly familiar.
Six weeks later found her back at Aqua Spirit, this time with a different intention. She was not here to observe and scribble away in her journal, lost in her own constructed world of descriptions and intermittent doodles when words escaped her mental grasp. Her attention was on the bartender behind the counter, chin supported on one palm as she idly stirred her drink, making conversation only when the lull was pronounced enough to allow the staff a more relaxed stance. On a Tuesday evening just after dinner, Grace supposed most of the bar's loyal clientele would rather be at home resting.
"You were twenty-eight, recently engaged to Ariadne Stewart, a plain Jane with a big heart," she continued, reciting the little story she had made up for the bartender named Louis nearly ten years ago in London, lips curved into a smile filled with playfulness and curiosity. Time could have distorted her memory, of course, but Grace could almost swear the man looked exactly the same then as he did now.