. crosshairs

[Deleted]

The girl's long fingers are numb, the tips fuzzy as she swirls her hand on the countertop. That last shot is settling in, her limbs feel heavy, and her brow feels swollen and tired. The consciousness is in par with this, as its' the time of night where everything is becoming very comedic. That smile on her face is tougher to erase than it was prior to the whiskey, it's become almost a permanent feature - there more times than not. Frida's defined herself as an impossibly happy drunk - her buzz full of jokes, bright, daring and illuminated. Her hand catches his once more, anticipating what is coming, a grave look passes her doe eyes. You have to stop.. Noah, she pauses and takes a deep breathe, I can't handle it. But it's too late, his shirt's unbuttoned, yellow bat symbol on display. The Swedish barmaid can't contain herself, her teeth biting into her knuckles, and her chest vibrating with laughter, noooo. She fans him away with one hand, turning her body away from him, and shaking her head quite violently, put it away! The bar, though hardly disrupted before hand, has been restored. Glasses glinting in their appropriate homes, bottle of whiskey promptly returned (though her heart is tempted to pour another shot, her mind is saying no). Placing the cloth back in the sink, and turning the dial of the volume anti-clockwise, she focuses her attention back on her scruffy company. You realize if you hadn't come here, you'd be rolling around in bed with Heidi Klum? she questions, clicking her heels across the floor and plopping herself next to him. How many sets of sheets have fallen victim to orange spray tan? her voice fills the air, and she drowns herself out by sipping on murky beer. You torture yourself, you torture me, stop suffocating me with laughter, she swings her legs across his lap, dragging a harmful heel across his knee cruelly. I can't take the bimbos, I've lost IQ, I dont know how you haven't. Notes:lol bad. Listening: some mix idk

[Deleted]

With a pink stained shirt mostly unbuttoned and the very sincere possibility of more My Little Pony stickers lurking somewhere on his person, Noah was a far cry from the hyper collected Bruce Wayne. To his credit, he'd never really been able to connect with the caped crusader. Bruce had lived a life of privilege, determination and excessive success, mentally, physically, professionally and socially. Noah had stumbled through life with no small amounts of embarrassment, and any success he had enjoyed had been more of an accident than a determined effort. Creating Peter Parker had been a Marvel masterstroke, the gawky superhero proving a role model for Noahs the world over. Even now, when pushed to his limits there was one question on his mind: what would Spider-Man do? It's not until she dissolves into fits of giggles that he remembers what a giant nerd he really is. But he's smiling all the same, since the truth is that it's ridiculous. "Stop, you'll push me to my Nolan Batman impression." Sloppily, clumsy fingers start to do the buttons up again but he gets bored halfway, leaving a triangle of dark fabric visible towards the collar of his shirt. She's still laughing and whether through drunkenness or not it's contagious, Noah joining in as he pats her back gently. "Here, try not to choke. Drinking with Batman, I get it, it's a lot to take in."  His eyes follow her as she tidies up. She's got a lot of maternal instincts - gentleness, empathy, and most importantly, a willingness to continuously clean. So unlike any girl he usually spent time with. Her comment makes him raise a brow, skepticism written across his face. "Really? You think she would have taken the Batman tee in stride?" In truth he must have known he wouldn't be sealing that particular deal this evening, or he might have skipped the shirt. With her legs across his lap, he sunk down into the sofa, propping his own feet up on the coffee table that was taking so much of his abuse. A half-smile crossed his face as her heel dug into him, the hand that wasn't clutching his beer finding her ankle and loosely settling there. "I have. I used to be a neurosurgeon, before I lost my virginity." God, the dad jokes were coming thick and fast tonight. He fell into thought for a moment, before offering a shrug.     "Thing is, you talk to enough of these women and you can't help but start to think they're fundamentally broken in some way. I've never been the first guy to fuck one of them over. That probably sounds really obvious to you, but to me... I used to think they had perfect lives, never having to put up with any shit whatsoever, and that used to piss me off. But really, as soon as they leave high school or maybe college, they have to work against their looks as much as with them." Notes: werkin' the second page. Listening:  arctics.

[Deleted]

Frida's unedited. She's a rough copy of some humanitarian mother-of-the-year. The way her hair falls with flaw across her eyes, and giggles slip from her throat, it's disarranged. She doesn't have a thought to buff out her flaws, and she often finds herself embracing her normality, pushing away compliments of beauty and giving the commercialized definition of perfect the cold shoulder. Focusing in on Noah, she can tell he's the odd one out. He's one person in front of his date, and a completely different one in her presense. Her legs stretch across his, her knees cracking tiredly, and she nods, agreeing. The blonde probably would have paused, and taken the tee shirt with a cold touch, more graceful than Frida's reaction. Never know.... probably not though, his ward hand cups her ankle, and she crosses her legs over each other. Ha-ha-ha, her voice is slow, mudding through with sarcasm. His next statement catches her off guard, not expecting his answer to be laced with seriousness. She's quiet for a second, sipping at her beer, draining it once more to the half way point. Nails tap at the glass' circumference, I don't feel that bad, she admits, shaking her head. Visions of high school beauty queens wander through her head, and she holds the drink on her lap. I just mean.. you can't really have beauty and brains, it's one or the other. Look at your own track record, she cracks a sarcastic smile, shrugging gently. Then she's doing a 180°, a certain honesty filling the gaps of her words, do you think when your wife found out, you broke her heart or her pride? Notes:TWO PAGES! (this is short & horrible, forgive) Listening: bad television

[Deleted]

Everything about his interaction with Frida is a mirror image to how he was with Lauren mere minutes before. Shoulders that had been square and straight were now lax, his whole body easing into the couch like they were one and the same. Where he had been smooth talking with the curvaceous blonde, each word carefully presented to please, he was unashamedly being entirely himself with the brunette. Cringe inducing jokes, comic book references, admittance of weakness... he wasn't like this with his closest friends and family, nevermind women. It was a novelty, to be so comfortable in his own skin. In truth, he'd spent so little time being himself, he'd almost forgotten who he really was. And she wasn't recoiling. In fact, she's stretching out over him, stretching herself out like a cat. His eyebrow's raised again as she considers his former chances. Consciously he makes a decision, and that decision is to be honest, though he's not sure why he had to think about it. If Frida was going to judge him, she'd missed out on a whole load of better opportunities to do so before now.  "I actually slept with her last weekend. She wasn't great... wanted a lot of affection. Really wanted some serious eye contact. Unnerving." He drinks what's left of his beer, leaning over her legs to abandon the empty bottle on the table. Spare hand meeting the other to cup around her lower calf, he tilted his head back and sank further down into the plush cushions, now so comfortable he could easily sleep. Which is probably why he's being so honest. That, and the fact she's so intuitively worthy of trust. And the alcohol. It was probably the alcohol. He nods. "Me either, or I'd stop." He's not sure that's entirely true, but it sounds better than the truth. "Hey hey," he starts, opening his eyes and looking into hers with a grin. "One of them could name every President of the United States. That was pretty impressive." It's her next question that really packs the punch. Momentarily thrown by it, he has to stop to digest what she's asking him, uncomfortable though it is. With some guilt he avoids her eye contact, looking down at his hands still cupped around her leg. "I definitely broke her heart. Her pride too, but that came after." He gives that a second to settle, before looking back at her again. "Be totally honest. Do you think I'm an asshole?"  Notes: blaaaaaaaah. Listening: nada.

[Deleted]

With her back against the arm of the chair, and her legs stretched over the man's lap, Frida is left in a vulnerable position. And it's not unusual for her to be left so relaxed, her being so attainable is a fixtured branch of her structure. She's cool natured, and accepting; the type to bite her lip and grin at the sense of conflict, to playfully poke around a tender situation. She is rarely angry or upset, but all the same she's serious, and level headed. Frida's feeling deja vu; memories of rendezvous in South Africa, talking shit with a boy named Jake. Laying in the grass with the orange sun hot above, bodies strewn together like mis-aligning puzzle pieces. But she feels strongly - though her mind hazy and slow with foggy liquor - that this isn't shooting the shit. No matter how jokey or divey their conversing may me, it is genuine, or it seems that way at least. She'll probably wake up in the morning and laugh about it, the past touching the warmth of her heart. Big swampy eyes roll at him, the weight of his hands drop onto her calves and she doesn't struggle against it, esteemed to his literal hand cuffs. Oooh, sexy, she smiles into her drink, nursing it to a quarter, and looking regretably at the portion left. She laughs delicately, managing to contain herself. For a second she's lost in her mind, biting her lip and furrowing her brow like a cartoon character. She counts to four presidents, and gives up, catching his gaze daringly, well, I can lick my elbow, and know all the words to Creep.. god, I do hate Radiohead though. Her face looks displeased, head swaying, and lips puckering as though she's chewing something sour. The young woman feels her chest constrict with second hand guilt, her own eyes imitating his lead, and falling to the pit of her pint glass. She swirls the drink, watching as it picks up the honey hues of the lights above and finally deciding to drain it, propping on the floor. She considers his question, chewing that bottom lip in thought once more. I think you want people to think you're an asshole, Frida's fingers draw through her hair, pulling it to one shoulder. Like you act tough as shit, and you play this big asshole game. But you're actually this gigantic soft sweetheart, who's been kicked down too many times, her leg lifts, the toe of her shoe checking the side of his face gently before settling back on his lap. You're not an asshole though, you're a seriously lovely person, I like you, I do! a grin cracks her soft features, her tone joking. All about that life. Notes:I had a life this one time.. so this post was late, but I gave you four paragraphs for a present! Listening: frankie valli - can't take my eyes off you. judge.

[Deleted]

This may not have been an unusual situation for her, but it was certainly an unusual situation for Noah. With the exception of his wife, his interactions with women always followed a certain course, with each party sending and receiving cues so formally it was as if they were consciously given out. Probably because they were on his end. Each little throwaway act of affection he bestowed upon one of the Tinder girls was so choreographed, timed to perfection in order to maximise her reaction. As if falling in love could be a science. But here he's not thinking about anything, conversation flowing without being broken by awkward silences. He didn't have his guard up around her, and the only other person on the planet who didn't make him defensive was a five year old girl, so it was novel indeed. "The least sexy," he agrees, at least to her sentiment if not what she'd actually said. He's jealous of the remainder of her beer, but much too comfortable to even begin to contemplate getting up. Her competitiveness prompts a smirk, a smirk that dies only seconds later as she admits to not liking Radiohead. Pulling himself upright, he turns to look at her with pure disbelief, jaw hanging open and eyes widened. "Radiohead are probably the best band of our lifetimes, don't just throw that out there like it's nothing. Did you even listen to In Rainbows?! You know I'm not even mad. I just feel really bad for you." He leans back... for two seconds. "No, seriously, I can't sit here and accept that. Please listen to In Rainbows on repeat for at least three days, you'll end up a different person. A person who loves Radiohead." Not trusting that she'll take his advice, he settles back, shaking his head all the while. Unbelievable. It distracts him from the question he'd put out there, but as she mulls it over he readies himself for the response. He's not really sure what he wants to hear. At least, until she replies with exactly what he wants to hear. It's the first time in his life anyone has used the word 'tough' in relation to him without outright mockery involved, and he's flattered by her response, laughing as she insists that she likes him. "Maybe you're a bad judge of character." He decides to leave it at that, not wanting to change her mind. He falls into another of his quiet spells, thoughts churning through that head of his. He eventually shrugs them off. "Tell me about your last relationship. You can be safe in the knowledge that it's less of a car crash than mine... a car crash you had a hand in orchestrating, no less." Notes: omgg i'm sorry i couldn't match it! Listening: the stone roses.

[Deleted]

Her eyes widen as she watches him getting defensive, his voice edging on erratic. A bemused smirk appears, she's almost proud she's said something so controversial. No, honestly, she raises her eyebrows and looks at him with challenge playing in her eyes, Rainbows is the album I'd listened to while falling asleep. The evil that would make me wake up with a huge migraine, Frida's sure of this. The thought of 'Reckoner' making her feel dreary and depressive. Frida's as soft as his reaction, tilting her head curiously at his mention of her judgement. The truth is her words couldn't be more genuine. In actuality, she finds his character refreshing. The barrier between who he is in a crowd, and who he is with her makes her lips itch with a smile. Noah's clear flaw of insecurity drives her into madness in a good way, she's like a pick pocketer the way she pinches at it, bemused when he's so open with her. But there's neediness that is missing, and she's in love with its disappearance, finding she's always the one who is giving so much into someone, and not getting anything in return. The two of them are mutual in respect, taking and giving with care, and when questions are asked, it's not tagged with the guilt of prying. She echoes a laugh. tilting her head up to look at the clock, and seeing the hand pointing to the ceiling. Uhm, she thinks out loud, swinging her legs over him, and clapping her feet against the floor, pushing her body up. I don't know, she shrug uncertainly, seemingly walking away from his question as she moves to the bar. Frida quickly locks the register and the safe, and grabs her purse from the back of the bar, settling it on the counter before turning back to him. I was with this one guy from home, we ended it when I was eighteen, she nods, recounting in her head. I think that was the last thing of any substance, and we didn't mesh too well. He wanted me to stay put, tie me down and conform me to some boring life. But in fairness I was pretty selfish too, and constantly ignored him, even slept with other people. He was dull, I felt suffocated. It lasted much longer than it ever should have, another shrug takes her shoulders. Tossing her bag over a shoulder, and jingling the keys in her hand, she clucks at him like a dog, let's go. Notes:w/e Listening: so much wine - andrew bird

[Deleted]

Eyes narrowed at her response, he tries to ascertain how palatable it is. That she doesn't like Radiohead has mildly irritated him in a way that he's almost embarrassed by-- after all, he has no personal connection to Thom Yorke, and music would lose all its worth were it not so deeply subjective. But he legitimately thought of Radiohead as beyond subjectivity in intelligent people. The more he thought about it, the more obvious it was that he was taking this personally because Radiohead had been amongst the few bands he identified with as a teenager, Creep predominate amongst his favorites. It also bothered him that he and Frida had a difference of opinion, and it was this fact that assuaged him most. After all, for him to feel a difference of opinion this strongly, he must have just become accustomed to being on the same page as her. "You slept to it, and that means something. I'm sorry that your life has pushed you to a place where you feel you have to lie to yourself about the artistic merits of Radiohead." As soon as her legs are removed from his touch he misses them, the comfort of physical contact stripped away in one breezy movement. Tiredness overcomes him, the effort of playing The Bachelor after being awoken at seven am playing catch up with his physiology. Tired bones collapse back onto the couch, sprawling out across it again and staring up at the ceiling, ignoring her as she went about doing her job. Generous as he was in spirit, he felt no inclination to help out. Instead he wondered when this ceiling was last looked at, and whether he was the first person to treat this sofa as a sofa bed. She'd dodged the question initially, and whilst he was prepared to let it go he wished she hadn't. Thankfully this was only a momentary lapse in honesty. He rubbed tired eyes so to focus on her, looking over as she paused her actions to respond. "Conform you," he repeated, smile softening.  A sigh escapes him as he realises he cannot spend the night crashed out in her place of employment, and with some reluctance he drags himself onto his feet. Having slung his jacket over his shoulder, he slung his arm around her dainty shoulders in the guise of structural support (a flimsy guise, given that she couldn't support his weight even had she been a foot taller). "Where are we going? So many places are closed. Don't you think that's the biggest lie ever told? New York being the city that never sleeps, I mean. It's dead by 2am." He steps out into the New York nighttime, breathing in cool air and relishing it. "Let's go back to mine. I have beer, Hilary Duff movies and Twizzlers." Before she can respond he's hailed a cab. Opening the door, he mutters the Chelsea address to the driver before stepping back, inviting her in. "What's it gonna be? You gonna hold out for a better offer?" Notes:  this truly sucked. Listening: radiohead. ty.

[Deleted]

Her jaden eyes are taking in Noah, reflecting his defensive figure in their glassy sheen. Her salmon pink lips are stretching wider unconsciously, and she's loving it, the more he goes on, the more that smile broadens. She is usually an agreeable, mild-mannered person, but the fact that she is causing controversy through her dislike of Radiohead and the slavering praise their attract, well, it's amusing to her. There is dissatisfaction lining his voice, but he's giving in, tricking himself, or maybe tricking her. Frida's lips are tied upward, like a pretty read bow. And if you closed your eyes, you'd still see the smile, leaking through her voice as she delivers the lyrics, you're so fucking special. Her eyes tend to the room, shoes trotting all through the bar as she does one last tidy up. Grabbing her own glass, and her "customer's", ushering them to the sink. As her hands are lifting wet dishes from the silver sink, her eyes catch the glint of the green bottle. And suddenly she feels a bit low, her tongue dry for that taste of whiskey. Don't tell Mason.. don't tell my boss, she makes a guilty face, twisting the bottle open and taking a hefty sip. I'm not an alcoholic, I'm a professional, she claims, placing the bottle back on the shelf and continuing on route. Noah's arm stretches across her shoulders, and she pulls herself closer, the smell of his cologne masculine and pleasing to her nose. Her fingers clasp the white fabric of his dress shirt, clinging to his back as not to fidget with her hands. When they leave the bar, she becomes more grateful for his mass figure, using it to cower under when she feels a breeze run through her sheer blouse. The air is cold, a difference in climate from the humidity of a summer day. Though her lungs are pleased, as the conditioned air proves refreshing. Frida quickly locks the door behind them, her eyes glancing up to meet his blue ones as he speaks. Umm, she's chewing on her lip for thought, and is about to suggest McDonalds when he makes his offer, it immediately seems better than a fast food chain. As the yellow cab rolls up, she's hit with a drunken love for the city, and she's looking at it with adoration as Noah peaks his head through the door. Do you have Cadet Kelly? she says with a grin when confronted. She's reluctant to loosen him from her death grip, keeping a fist full of his shirt as she slides into the cab. Is the nanny there? Will she think I'm from Tinder? she rambles questions curiously. Can you make sure she doesn't? Notes:I'm sorry for this whole lot of NOTHING Listening: silver linings playbook.

[Deleted]

Those lyrics, his high school anthem. When the time had come to say "I do" to his one time tormentor, he'd fought hard to try and have Creep as their first dance song. Predictably this was not met with great enthusiasm by his bride to be, and instead they opted for the nauseatingly saccharine Bright Eyes. He felt sick just thinking about it. He also felt sick as he watched her swig from the bottle, holding a hand up in mock surrender as he shook his head, empathetically feeling the burn of alcohol just from watching. "I gotta hand it to you, you're hardcore." He's laughing as he says it, since everything about her delicate beauty wouldn't suggest the toughness that lurks within. She's got a strength of character that he's never seen in another person, a self belief that's totally justified and yet manages to avoid ever slipping into arrogance. She's never brash and never meek. She's abrupt, but never impolite. Her whole existence feels like an exercise in restraint and he couldn't stop being continuously impressed. Stepping out into the dark was a shock to the senses, but a good one. But with his arm around Frida he can feel her brace against the cold, bringing her slight frame in close to his bulkier one. He tightens his grip, rubbing her arm briskly to try and engineer some warmth. Despite the fact that she is literally clinging to him, there's nothing emotionally clingy about it... it's reassuring, giving him a hint that she feels as comfortable with him as he does with her. "This is a real cliche, but I feel like I've known you forever," he says, thinking aloud. The thought gets lost as he hails a cab, stepping out into the road and flagging it down with a determined nod. If you were to ask Noah what his greatest achievement in life was, it'd be mastering the ability to flag down cabs with a nod rather than a wave.  After giving his instruction to the cab driver, he turned to face her and see her answer. Given that she hasn't let go of his shirt and he doesn't want her to, they're closer than he was accustomed to, with her stood on the curb and it almost making her as tall as him. Drunkenness depriving him of tact, his eyes meet hers and he's studying them again, shadow casting them to a darker green. She's so beautiful and he's so drunk that he's seized with a need to kiss her, his hands going so far as to find her waist... but the driver gets impatient and hits his horn, shaking Noah from his intentions. A smile breaks out across his face. "Of course I have Cadet Kelly, what kind of Hilary Duff collection would it be without it?" And then they're in the car, the moment gone but lingering on. Blue eyes fix on the window without really seeing, neon lights shining red, blue, white and green on his face as they pass. Her question reminds him of an awkward oversight, and he groans, running a hand over his face in dismay. "Christ, how'd I forget? Frida, I'm so sorry," he turns to her, corners of his mouth twitching with an apologetic grin, "you're gonna have to meet my mom. She came down from Boston to visit Anya, I totally forgot." Notes:  it's like i intentionally gave you nothing. Listening: nick cave.

[Deleted]

Frida feels at ease standing on the curb, with her fist full of his shirt, and her body pressed into his like a wave lapping at a cliff. She feels a certain level of comfort, which for her isn't bizarre. Her friends are constantly making fun of her for finding inappropriate places to take a sleep, whether it be in the spooky Amazon jungle, or sneaking off during a house party to fall asleep in a corner of the room - always the victim of having penises inked on her face. But Noah's a practical stranger, their encounters though painted with the same vibrant hue of this current adventure, are brief. When he mentions he feels as though he's known her forever, she thoughtfully agrees. Their interaction well layered, as though best friends. Niches unknown seem known, and she doesn't feel stuck, or awkward, that silly smile tattooed on her face. Just your theraputic bartender, she claims, her voice high like she's singing a verse of a song. Frida loses him for a moment as his body drops to the road, pinching that little bit of fabric, she feels immediately at loss without the heat of his body. She gains height, but even with it and her heels he is still standing over her. Her arm curves around his torso as he turns, the weight of his hands dropping onto her hips. Olive eyes narrow, curiosity draws sparkle in them, and she grins sneakily. The sound of the taxi's horn barely phases her, hopping off the curb and dragging Noah into the back seat with her. Then I can bet you have The Lizzie Maguire Movie! In the taxi all she hears is bad top forty music, and she's displeased, almost wanting to tell the driver to switch the station. However she decides against it, by putting herself in his position and imagining if some drunk twenty year old was telling her what music to listen to. Her hand loosens its grip on Noah, and she folds them neatly on her lap, on top of her purse. At his apology her heart drops, expecting something much worse, her face is beginning to lose colour when he gives his bad news. Reviving her heart, she laughs, waving her hand at him. God, I thought it'd be worse, she says honestly, her hands digging through her purse. I'm the parent whisperer, 9/10 mothers like me, she pauses pointing a single finger up, only one hasn't.. because of an incident involving cola, mentos, and a white rug. Yet her hands still drag through her purse, finally finding a package of breath mints and dropping two of them into her mouth, she's paranoid that her breath smells boozy, which would of course spoil her whispering. Her fingers trifle through her wallet, pinching a couple of bills between her fingers. When the cab rolls to a halt, she's right between the console, handing the bills to the driver, oh, I can't tell you how much I love Bruno Mars! Thank you so much. She turns to Noah, picking up his hand and dragging him out her door and onto the road. Do you feel immaculated? Don't worry, you can repay me in beer. Notes:this is just badbadbad Listening: lordy lorde

[Deleted]

Laughing as he's dragged into the cab, he nods along. "Sure I do. I'm torn between Beauty and the Briefcase and Agent Cody Banks 2 as favorites though, they're both masterpieces in their own right." Frida takes the news of his mother positively and whilst he's grateful for that fact, her enthusiasm proves less infectious on this particular occasion. This would be because he knows his mother where she does not... yet. Fussy and particularly fussy over her son, Abigail Solomon could talk continuously for two hours without needing to pause for air, and often proved this skill around any woman he brought home. Usually to his great disadvantage. "I'm gonna have to say you're my girlfriend. Is that alright? If I say friend she'll assume you're a booty call and neither of us will hear the end of it. She refers to Tinder exclusively as 'the sex thing' and anyone mentioning it around her gets to hear her exhaustive list of grievances with it." Despite the anticlimactic revelation, the color is only just returning to her cheeks and he can't help but feel a swell of affection for her. He can't think of what she might have been worried about - a harem of tinderellas? Maybe a slumber party full of screeching five year old girls? Admittedly either possibility was distinctly plausible, but thankfully not tonight. Not to mention that he remained convinced that his mom was the worst case scenario. Whipping out his phone, thumbs glide swiftly over it's glossy screen, typing out a message to his mother. Bringing my girlfriend back. Please try to be cool. It was hopeless a cause. Knowing his mom, she'd be bursting with excitement at the update. By the time the cab pulled up outside his apartment block, he was sure at least 80% of his aunts would have received a call from Abigail, gloating about how she was getting ready to meet her new future daughter-in-law. Rolling his eyes as she paid, his hand is seized in hers and he's pulled out onto the street, dread weighing heavy in his stomach. "I haven't even paid for the beer I drank at your bar, I feel more like a thief than anything else." His tone has flattened, and he nods his thanks to the doorman who ushers them inside. Offering a cheery hello to the receptionist as he goes, he leads her past the usual elevators and to one that's tucked away at the side. Tapping the call button and causing the little upwards arrow to turn green, it's not until they're in the elevator that he looks at her. "Really, I am so sorry." There's only one button in the elevator, but to get this one to turn green he first needs to tap in a security code, offering a knowing grin to the CCTV camera as he does so. Slowly it rides up to the top storey, doors opening into the foyer of the penthouse. There's silence. Eerie silence. Taking a hesitant step, he protectively ushers Frida behind him, as if this is Jurassic Park and a wily velociraptor might launch itself from behind a curtain at any moment. Instead, something worse. "If it isn't my darling boy!" Like Batman, Abigail has appeared out of the shadows, expertly disguising her footsteps so to preserve the element of surprise. She lands a zealous kiss onto Noah's cheek, leaving a great big smudge of red lipstick there that he just knows she'll try to wipe away with a spit laden finger. "And here she is. I have heard SO much about you. Aren't you just beautiful! What's your name, princess?" She seizes the petite brunette, pulling her into a rib crushing hug and no doubt enveloping her in the smell of Chanel no 5. Noah shakes his head silently behind his mother, a woman who is literally trying to say she's heard a lot about a girl she doesn't even know the name of. "Come in, come in, let's have some wine. Hopefully the nanny hasn't drank it all, you know what they're like!" Notes:   BLAH.COM Listening: young dumb and living off mum.

[Deleted]

Frida's widening her eyes mockingly, oh my god, reaaaaaally. And her eyes roll, dropping the pack of mints back into the black leather pouch, she can't be that bad.. and besides, it's late, she'll be in bed? At least, Amanda Lindberg would be. Her mother was beyond her years, and too old to consider that a compliment, her evenings were spending with a pair of needles in her hands, knitting sweaters for her unborn grandchild. Awake at dawn, and often asleep before the evening slipped into double digits. She can't imagine a woman over fifty awake at this time at night, in contrast to her own demure mother it seems unlikely. Yet Noah's changed, and she picks up on it right as he has. His body language becoming more rigid, even the pitch of his voice has toned down, he is reserved as he joins her on the street. Her fingers webbed through his, she offers a light smile, stop, you're fine. Her thin hand falls from his, busying herself by twisting the length of her hair to the right side, and following him inside the massive building. As her heels click against the marble surface, her eyes busy themselves by surveying the interior. She feels slightly out her league in such a lavish setting, though tries not to show it, carrying herself tall and reflecting a smile at the staff. Shhh, she hushes at him inside the elevator, inquisitively watching his fingers press the number board. She fidgets with her hands, twisting at her hair and stroaking the curve of her lip with her thumb, pressing her teeth into flesh. Stiff as a rail, he's making her anxious, and though she tells herself he's exaggerating, she's getting the sense that she should be afraid. And when the doors slide open, that sensation becomes more real. Her mind is painting an image of some shark-like woman, fierce cheekbones, and a cutting tone. But when she steps into view she's nothing of the sort, in fact Frida's surprised by her. The woman's lips a bright cherry red, her eyes the same stony-blue of her son's, in fact she looks so much like Noah that the girl deems her harmless. Her voice is like candy as she speaks, and Frida delicately smiles, holding her back less as suffocating. Oh, you're lovely, her accent becomes more evident, her fingers maintaining contact on the woman's arm. Frida, it's so nice to finally meet you.. honestly you're sweet, she smiles up at the beloved son, floating an an arm around his waist, only to pinch him harshly at the side. When his mother has left the room she provokes him with another pinch, god, you made me think she was a monster.. she's only every woman you've ever dated. Notes:puke Listening: sweet home alabama, the movie. obvs

[Deleted]

The question of it being late prompts an inward chuckle. As if. His most vivid memories of his mother involved parties at their house, where she would invite half of Boston over and be drunk on prosecco by eight pm, tucking him into bed with wine on her breath and words slurred. It wasn't that she had a problem... not unless you count being a chronic source of embarrassment to your children as a problem. She'd invite everyone round, get drunk and start stirring shit, so that inevitably the soirees would end in scandal. She was a drama queen, and it was probably her determined devotion to trouble that had encouraged her son to so vehemently avoid it his whole life. If there was one thing Abigail was not, it was a positive role model. But to her credit, she lay out a beautiful blue print of things not to do. "Oh, she'll be awake. She'll definitely be awake."  To add to his awkwardness, he's also embarrassed by his apartment. It had been a purchasing decision made primarily by his ex wife, and had it been left up to him he would have gone for something much more clean and minimalistic. But the former Mrs Solomon had loved everything lavish, and insisted on high ceilings and heated flooring and panoramic views of the city. That last one he didn't mind so much. He mouths the word 'sorry' behind his mother's back, impressed but not surprised by Frida's grace in this situation. He wants desperately to go and check on Anya, but forgoes this ritual in favor of staying and making sure his mom doesn't make anyone too uncomfortable. Frida's arm around his waist helps give him something else to focus on. Putting his arm around her shoulders, he defensively pulls her close.. only to wince as he's pinched. His mother doesn't catch this, however, being so distracted by her need to survey the girl in front of her. Apparently pleased, she disappears to fetch the wine, and there's another sharp pain at his side as he's pinched again. But it's what she says that really hurts. Staring at her scandalized, he has to be called to lead her into the other room. And he can't unsee it. There's his mother, dressed in a fitted red dress and heels to babysit her grandchild. Her hair is glossy and perfectly coiffed, about three cans of hairspray holding up intricate back combing and hot ironed curls. The color drains from his face much as it had from hers not so long ago. With a glass of red wine being shoved into his lax hand, he finally finds his voice. "Uh, mom... we're really tired. Frida just got in from Sweden so she's really jetlagged, and I'm beat... thanks so much for helping with Anya. Was she okay?" Abigail looks at him knowingly, getting the hint. "Oh Noah, you are so ungrateful. But Sweden, of course! I knew a beauty like yours could never be American. And a girl who flies in heels is a girl I can get on with," she offers a wink, before waving a dismissive hand, sending bangles jangling. "Ugh, she insisted on growling every word to me. Thinks she's Godzilla, of all things. Really Noah, I think you're projecting your own interests onto her. ... Oh Frida, the nightmare this boy was growing up. Did you know that he spent two weeks solid in the same Batman costume? He was nine, and would bawl when--" Cutting her off in more than one sense, Noah took the full glass from her hands and set it down on a pristine glass coffee table. "Go to bed mom," he said firmly. This was met with a dramatic wink. "Oh I see! Well, I do suppose you've missed each other, and Anya could do with a little playmate.. so lovely to meet you." She leaned down to kiss Frida on the cheek. "Do sleep well- or rather, don't!" As soon as she's teetered away, he's holding his face in his hands. "Jesus." Pulling Frida down onto the couch, he buries his face against her shoulder. "What did I tell you? I'm sorry. So sorry. Shall I swap this wine for beer? God, I'm sorry." Notes:   abigail is my next character. Listening: still young dumb and living off mum.

[Deleted]

Abigail Solomon is so unalike her son in the way she carries herself. She's a spitting image with her cool eyes, and her coarse hair, but the way she floats around the room is different than that of her spawn. It's not that Noah doesn't hold himself confidently, in fact she's almost an example of what he's like when he drags his gorgeous model-like dates into the bar. Though in only Frida's company, she's found him to have a softer posture, his shoulders more relaxed, more open and less scripted than that of his mothers. Abigail stands with her shoulders back, and her breasts pushed out, her hips even as she stands evenly. Though she is a much younger woman, Frida's envious of her, the way her red dress clings to her curves just unholy. She can see she's drained his blood, and offers a sympathetic stroke on his back, as well as a small pout. The brunette follows him, drifting through his amazing home, which in her point of view lacks in nothing. There's hints of Noah cluttered about the design, and she finds her eyes drawn towards these pieces, spying a comic book among a spread of magazines. As she enters the next room - which is illuminated in that same relaxed honey glow of her bar - she finds evidence of a child, a pink sippy cup laying empty on the table, smiling softly when she spies it. Then there's a generous glass of red wine in her face, eyes widen for show and she laughs, taking it in her fingers, thank you! Frida remains close to Noah, listening as he speaks awkwardly, smiling into the wine, she takes a small sip. It takes bitter and sour on her tongue, unbearable to the point she has to set it down. So tired, she nods, exaggerating her exhaustion. When Abigail addresses her Frida smiles brightly. Tack så mycket, she brushes up on her finest Swedish, watching as it delights the woman. She kicks up one of her sore feet and looks down grimly, beauty is pain! When the woman goes on about Noah's influence, and rambles into a story of his childhood, the girl grins up at him. Disappointed when he cuts her off, her lips curving the opposite way, she makes a sad face at him. When Abigail opens her mouth next, Frida's caught off guard, her cheeks flushing red, all she can do it is laugh it off. Goodnight, she kisses her back on the cheek, her arm reaching over her shoulder blade in a half embrace. Once she is out of earshot, Frida finds herself giggling uncontrollably, following Noah involuntarily as he flops onto the couch. Feeling as he sighs into her, she presses into her cheek against his hair, still in a fit of giggles. It could have been worse, her hand reaches around him to pat him reassuringly on the shoulder, I haven't spilt cola on your carpet.. yet. She kicks her heels off, her relieved toes stretch, and she folds her legs onto the couch. Mmmm, beer, her decision has been finalized for ages, that glass of wine still sitting and practically untouched. She remains undisturbed, her body suddenly heavy and her head still leaning against his, eyes gazing out the large window. I think I'll fall asleep here. Notes:i can support that Listening: a tom hardy chick flick