The more things change... [for the Marquis]
There are a few things about tall old buildings in the city that need to be accepted with grace: the negotiations with the historical preservation society for the right to change the building's appearance, the little creaks and drafts that develop over time, and the fact that keeping the gorgeous old elevator meant a slow and ponderous ride to the top floor.
Other things about such buildings are somewhat more readily acceptable: the beautiful architectural details, the stunning views, and the friends waiting inside. In the case of the latter, it's a surprisingly alone Ali, taking advantage of a Saturday with no visitors to catch up on studying; a far more worthy pursuit, in her mind, than picking up the small mountain of pillows scattered across the floor as battlefield debris from a fierce pirates versus English navy battle before breakfast. Having kicked a few of the abandoned pillows into a corner of the living room, Ali lounges against them, a thick textbook in her lap from which she's taking short but frequent notes. Glasses were frequently readjusted, but never abandoned entirely, and whatever discomfort they gave was easily remedied by the hot chocolate close at hand. And for foot warmers, two fluffy cats taking a well-earned nap filled in.
The room, despite its current disarray, was unquestionably Ali's, a palate of cream and red filling the room in a dozen different patterns. Red toile cushions line the window-seats, set against paisley curtains. A pair red leather settees mirror each other in the center of the room, matched with striped velvet chairs. Gleaming silver and soft pewter glimmer here and there, adding sparkle and light. To break up the monochromatic palate, the walls were filled with art. Filled. The wall color was itself barely seen. The only thing missing was something to fill the strangely empty feeling the room had, as if the room were holding its breath in anticipation.
Other things about such buildings are somewhat more readily acceptable: the beautiful architectural details, the stunning views, and the friends waiting inside. In the case of the latter, it's a surprisingly alone Ali, taking advantage of a Saturday with no visitors to catch up on studying; a far more worthy pursuit, in her mind, than picking up the small mountain of pillows scattered across the floor as battlefield debris from a fierce pirates versus English navy battle before breakfast. Having kicked a few of the abandoned pillows into a corner of the living room, Ali lounges against them, a thick textbook in her lap from which she's taking short but frequent notes. Glasses were frequently readjusted, but never abandoned entirely, and whatever discomfort they gave was easily remedied by the hot chocolate close at hand. And for foot warmers, two fluffy cats taking a well-earned nap filled in.
The room, despite its current disarray, was unquestionably Ali's, a palate of cream and red filling the room in a dozen different patterns. Red toile cushions line the window-seats, set against paisley curtains. A pair red leather settees mirror each other in the center of the room, matched with striped velvet chairs. Gleaming silver and soft pewter glimmer here and there, adding sparkle and light. To break up the monochromatic palate, the walls were filled with art. Filled. The wall color was itself barely seen. The only thing missing was something to fill the strangely empty feeling the room had, as if the room were holding its breath in anticipation.