alder smoke blues .

[desmond hudson]

<sub>-----DESMOND Hudson's figure hunched over a desk, his slender bony fingers punched the keyboard of a aquamarine coloured Royal Typewriter rhythmically. He was portraying an image of an era he so desperately desired to be in, hoping his beloved 1950's typewriter (which most of the keys had lost letters and become black with use) would will him into a time where the hollow glow of a Macbook didn't exist. But last, if he looked over his left shoulder, there it was. Still sitting in the box, bits of Christmas wrapping paper clinging onto its sides. When he received it nearly four months earlier, he praised his two dads, replacing spits of commercialism and loss-of-communication with "how did you know I always wanted one?!" His sister Ava later mentioned how he could have tried harder to hide the displeasure on his face. A genius with words - a master of essays, emails, and cover letters - but he could never bullshit via appearance. While his tone said, "golly gee, dads!", his face so evidently said, "I'm a beat poet, god-damn it!!"

-----THE TALL man sighed heavily, leaning back in the leather office chair, the creak of its wooden legs disrupting the silence that held the room so tightly together. His arms stretched above his head, fingers weaving into each other, his elbows cracking with minimal effort. Desmond's eyes looked through dark-rimmed glasses to the paper coiling from the machine. Nothing. Not literally a blank sheet of paper, but it might as well have been. 'All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy', written over and over again. He could have laughed at the film reference, or at the fact that he'd just spent the good part of an hour plagiarizing Jack Torrence's masterpiece. But Desmond Hudson was barely amused, he couldn't stifle a sigh note of laugher. So he decided to pick of an tattered box of Marlboro Classics, and lit a cigarette instead.

-----INSTEAD of crumbling the paper and tossing it into the waste basket, he carried it into the kitchen with him. Eyes looking over those words, channelling 'The-Shining' within him, but hearing no voices. Never looking away, he flicked the switch on the coffee maker and puffed gently at his cigarette. While the coffee brewed, the smell overtaking the staleness of the apartment, Desmond held the paper over the sink. Almost like a curious child (or a careless psychopath), he took his cigarette to the corner of the page, and watched as orange flames took over the words. Moments later he let it sit till it ceased to exist in the sink. Lifting the cigarette to sit loosely within the width of his mouth, he swiped a mug from the shelf. It was only then he caught sight of Dasia, her feline figure posing in the door frame; he nonchalantly grabbed a second mug.</sub>

-----TAGGED dasia mae knight
-----MUSIC heavy breathing
-----NOTES desmond's a try-hard.

[dasia mae knight]

If there was a sound to bring joy to Dasia Mae's heart, it was that of her Louboutins making contact with the sidewalk. Click, click, click. Like cutting through card with sharp scissors, or submerging her fingers deep into a bag of rice, there was an innate sense of satisfaction to be drawn from that sound. It fit. It was an attention grabbing sound, sure to draw the eyes of passers by to that famous scarlet sole. It was the sound of success. As with so many of these little pleasures, it was a small reminder that she was alive and more than that, that she was alive and the woman she thought herself to be. It was a source of particular comfort now, given that she had been in an uncharacteristic slump with regards to her identity as late. In Desmond's absence - because of? In spite of? She didn't know - Dasia had lost touch with herself, the lines blurring between Dasia the Self-Righteous, Unwavering Feminist, and Dasia the Lonely Chelsea Girl. She knew which side of herself she preferred.   Blissfully, it was the easier side to portray. And, as she frequently reminded herself, "we are what we pretend to be". As often was the case, Dasia had conveniently pushed the other half of that Vonnegut quote to the back of her mind. Was it really so important that we be careful what we pretend to be? As the slender blonde approached the brownstone she had almost forgotten, she gave her appearance a quick glance in the reflection of her iPhone. This function was the main reason she'd chosen it in black, after all. The unnatural blush of her lips and flick of dark eyeliner was prime mocking material for Desmond, but the girl couldn't bring herself to tone it down, feeling her face was only at its most natural once caked in product. This from a woman who supposedly lacked body confidence issues.  Greasepaint firmly in place, she took a deep breath, sucking in all that glorious New York pollution. Low air quality was like a postcard from London, a little boost of nostalgia to make her feel less like she was thousands of miles away from home. Pollution: a girl's best friend. An invitation to enter seemed redundant when one was intruding upon a recluse's space, and as such, she didn't bother. Wondering if she might find him with company, it was only a moment's consideration before she let out a short laugh. Clearly the pollution was getting to her. Sure enough, once inside it was clear that Desmond was doing what Desmond did best: moping, cigarette in hand, stewing in isolation.                "Having fun?"   It was a pointless question, but she didn't trust herself to expand beyond the two word mark just yet. Seeing him in the flesh was odd: he looked different but the same, and she was torn between hugging him and turning back the way she'd come. Instead she opted to do nothing. Hovering in the doorway, she didn't close the door. "Are you busy? Should I go?" Notes:  IDK WTF THIS IS. Listening: warpaint.

[desmond hudson]

<sub>-----HAND lifted above the kitchen sink, flicking the grey ash of his cigarette into the smoky ruins. His hip rested on the side of the counter, one hand bracing his weight on the outdated and coffee stained marble top. Desmond's figure stood crippled, his lips sucked in earthy nicotine, and his rimmed gaze set on her. A man of few words as it was, unless sitting down with a pen and paper in hand; with Dasia standing sleekly in the entrance of the door, he couldn't find a collection of words. Dressed in a white tee shirt( which was - much like the counter top - covered in yellow coffee stains), and an old thrifted pair of pants, he was sure without his beard, or cigarette, or coffee bubbling in the pot he would look like a creep.

-----THE MOMENT was slowly seized, the smoke drooling from between his lips, and a subtle shift in weight. You're alright, voice was gruff and his fingers pressed the stub of the cigarette into the side of the sink, letting it ash out with Jack Torrence. Das, he hushed her name inaudibly, leaving the apartment to fall into its former state of silence, while he moved forward to close the space between them. It was then he did something uncharacteristic of himself, a move usually initiated by the blonde. His thick arms wrapped around her petite body, pulling her into his broad chest, and holding the embrace for a a moment. His nostrils picked up a waft of her licorice y perfume, which held stark against the damp room, and he loosened his grip on her skeletal frame. Desmond reached around her to pull the door shut, catching the small of her back to encourage her to enter. Coffee.... his voice drawled, turning his head, an eyebrow cocking upward, milk, right?


-----MUSIC smashing pumpkins
-----NOTES we said short, OK!!!!</sub>

[dasia mae knight]

Uncomfortable and surprised by her discomfort, she'd subconsciously pulled her jacket more tightly around herself, cocooned against she-didn't-know-what. She forced herself to straighten up. It helped to imagine a pole behind her, giving herself something to straighten up against.. and just like that her body eased, muscle memory taking over and letting her at least assume the stance of someone more at ease with themselves. It helped that there was an Omega watch on her wrist, heavy and almost comically juxtaposed with her thin limbs. Even at a glance it was obviously a man's watch, hefty and a dark silver, little Roman numerals spelling out the time. A little gift from a client. What did it matter if he didn't explicitly give it to her? Just feeling it there, remembering its presence, made her feel better yet. Another little personality anchor now that the clicking of heels had been curbed.   Dasia remained still, oddly paralysed. Usually she would rush to fill the silences, her rambling crushing the silence down like a tidal wave... but it was Desmond talking now, albeit intermittently. It felt a little like an out of body experience. Sounds of distant traffic provided a backdrop to what should have been her chattering, the smell of smoke enveloping her and reminding her of practically every man she'd ever known. The blonde shot him a curious glance as he approached her, unnaturally defined eyebrow arched as she tried to figure out what he was doing. Even once his arms were around her she was too shocked to really respond, though inhaling his scent relaxed her, her stiffened body once more easing ever so slightly. By the time it had occurred to her to hug him back he'd moved away, and she inwardly mourned the lost opportunity. But the hand in the small of her back... that was something else. Goosebumps crept up her porcelain skin and she hated herself for it. She was touched as a profession, and firmly believed that even the most passionate things could become dull with the attachment of vocational duty, but here she was, flushed because a boy had hugged her. Time to get her act together. "And one sugar, thank you." Pulling herself up onto the counter top, she forced herself into at least a pantomime of her usual self. "Are these new? Love them," she swiped the glasses off his face, pulling them onto hers and pulling a serious expression. "Not at all pretentious. Not at all." Notes:  that last one was just word vomit, this is at least shorter word vomit.. Listening:  beethoven.

[desmond hudson]

<sub>-----DESMOND allowed the faintest smile to creep onto his face, the corners of his lips breaching into unfamiliar territory. And one sugar, his voice so low you'd almost need a microphone to pick it up. Since arriving back in New York, he'd been pushing his own limits, trying to find the balance between socialist and hermit. These small tasks of happiness usually involved sulking to the cornerstore for a fresh pack of Marlboros, complaining 10% less when heading to the bar with Buzz and Damian, and calling for take out. Though usually these situations were slammed with negativity, and he left them cursing human intelligence.

-----FINGERS pressed against the counter, leaning his body weight into it once more as he played his piano hands. Through the corner of his eye he watched she she heaved herself up beside him, he thought to say something about how the mess on the counter really go with what she was wearing, but in the end he didn't bother with it. He slowly began to open his mouth, and protest, but feeling the glasses lift from their perch, he shriveled his face instead. Yea, picked them up fromt he dollar store down the road, he muttered sarcastically, his index and thumb pinching between his nose and eyes blinking to adjust to newfound vision. He looked at her for maybe two seconds, trying hard to look unamused before averting his eyes. Taking the pot, he filled each mug full of hot coffee, the aroma lifting in clouds of steam; he could live in that smell. I'm going to have to break your heart, he bits his lip, shaking his head slowly, I have neither milk nor sugar. Desmond slids one glossy mug towards her, and lifts the other to his lips.


-----MUSIC junior kimborough
-----NOTES i'm sorry.</sub>

[dasia mae knight]

Seeing the world through the lenses of those glasses made everything a little softer, blurred as they were. Stains looked like aesthetic choices, and Desmond's features were blurred enough that he was only just recognisable as himself. She liked it. Pulling her hair over one shoulder, Dasia started idly plating it as she watched his subtle movements. He wasn't really any different at all. Pushing the glasses up on top of her head, a small grin crept across her crimson pout. "Writers' block?" she asked, nodding at the pile of papery ashes in the sink. There was a jump between Desmond the man and Desmond the writer that she didn't often make, but at times like these she was reminded that actually, writing was a passion, and not just something that allowed him to call himself a writer for the sake of his image. As if his book didn't stand testament to that. She pushed thoughts of his novel as far back into her consciousness as she could manage.   Lifting the mug between both hands, she let the ceramic warm her chilled fingers, offering a dainty (and entirely uneffective) blow to try and cool the scalding liquid down. Just the smell promised a strength that could only be expected from Des. "Unsweetened coffee is a little out of my league, Hudson. I'll do my best." She took a small sip, feigning a forced smile. In truth it was delicious. Every so often Desmond would do something to betray himself, he'd make a small little purchasing decison, say, that would flag up a palate that had been trained by a childhood of gourmet food. Perhaps it was more obvious to Dasia than most, as she'd had a similarly privileged upbringing.   Placing the mug down and slipping off the counter, she stood right up in front of him. Leaning over and closing what gap there was between them, she neatly swept the glasses off her head and placed them back in their rightful place, undoing her plait as she did so. With not even the slightest attempt at self control, she squeezed his cheeks briefly. "There you go. Authenticity restored.       "Let's play a game." Notes:  do not be!! Listening:  the xx.

[desmond hudson]

<sub>-----HOT liquid hits the tip of his tongue, and as he manages to subtly lift the white ceramic from his lips. His teeth bite into the muscle, taking his focus off the burning pain. He watches as she toys with his glasses, the blonde looks like a scene girl on instagram with her bleached locks and his thick rimmed glasses. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, he recietes, immediately become annoyed that he wasted the entirety of an hour writing nothing but. As he wrote, Desmond could relate to the main character of the film, slipping into a murky psychotic madness. Something like writers block, more like blatent plagerizim , he admits, hovering the mug mid chest, the neat white of it making his shirt more evidently filthy.

-----DESMOND's head shakes as he watches her, her brightly painted lips blowing the air from her lungs. He foolishly takes a second sip of the steaming coffee, the blackness gushing down his throat, feeling slightly like a punch to the jugular. He coughs gently, setting the mug back down on the counter. His eyes stare evenly into Dasia's as she slips from the counter, in her massive heels she's almost as tall as him. Take off your shoes, don't need you trekking mud through my palace, he's slightly joking, obviously as his 'palace' is a just a hole in the wall. But he's almost so bothered by how uncomfortable the heels seem, he wants to tear them off her feet himself.

-----THE woman slips his glasses back onto his face, and her soft fingers grab the fat of his cheeks. The rush of blood fills his face, but luckily his grizzly beard hides this reaction, and his dignity remains intact. No, no games, he retorts, removing his glasses to pinch at the bridge of his nose, and reposition them. Cigarettes, then games, he picks up his coffee, and waves her into the mess of his poorly kept office.

-----MUSIC jimi hendrix
-----NOTES this is. whatever. but il double ds.</sub>

[dasia mae knight]

Dasia waves a hand dismissively, French manicured fingers grazing dangerously close to his mug. "I never cared for Stephen King. Sinthia thought that he wrote the Hunger Games, I wish he had." Taking a tentative sip of her own coffee, she scrunched her face up from behind the glasses. Rather than asking, she starts rifling through his cupboards, pulling out tins and jars and bottles as she rummages around. Finally she finds a bottle of syrup and beams. "10 points to Ravenclaw!" she says, patting his shoulder appreciatively with one hand as the other pours a generous amount into her coffee. "Beautiful." Another sip proves much more agreeable, and she sets the syrup and coffee down.  "My shoes?" Her eyebrows knit together in confusion before she remembers those skyscraper heels. "Ah. Forgot I had them on. Occupational hazard." Another smile, and she places a hand on his shoulder to balance herself as she pulls them off. At least five inches shorter now, she glances around the apartment. "Now that I'm closer to it, this mess really is out of control. I'd offer to clean if I wasn't afraid of what I'd find."   Dragged into his office with little promise of frivolity, Dasia sighs dramatically and trudges along behind him, every inch the reluctant child. But as soon as she's in there her face lights up, since this mess seems full of promise. "This is your writing, isn't it? All these scraps of paper? Can I read?!" Pre-emptively snatching up handfuls of paper, she clutches it to her chest in case he tries to take it away. "Are the notes for your novel somewhere in here? Am I gonna turn over a piece of paper with a little asterisk and a note all 'remember, Dasia = massive fucking whore' on it? I imagine that's something you wanted to bear in mind in lieu of research." Hearing an edge of bitterness in her own voice, she forced a smile. "No hard feelings, by the way. I write about you too. Do you even read my columns?" Notes:  i'm listening to pink i blame her for this. but ilthem too much! Listening:  pink. judge meeeee.

[desmond hudson]

<sub>-----DESMOND watches her nearly empty an ancient bottle of maple syrup into her mug, the flaxen liquid shimmering and oozing from one to the other. His eyes are full of disgust, but he does little to stop her. Truthfully, he begins, eyes travelling from her lips to her eyes, giving his head a shake, neither am I.. more of Stanley Kubrick's script. It was a half-lie, having not even indulged in one of Stephen King's novels. He found the covers of his books slightly tacky and distasteful, but admitting that would make him seem like a literary snob.

-----A LAUGH escaped the hollow of his throat, though it was more a grunt than a laugh. He gazed over what he now called home, he hadn't lived here for more than a few months, but it seemed like he'd been hoarding various objects for decades. Kitchen cupboards had become storage for books, tables had stacks of papers (bills, calenders, leaflets), various surfaces held stolen pint glasses. It seemed everything was a bit lost, and away from home. Through his eyes, yes, it was a mess, but he was sure if he had to find something he'd have no problem finding it.

-----HIS THICK mass slips down into the comfort of that worn leather office chair, eyes darting for the shine of a zippo lighter, and fingers lifting a cigarette to his mouth. As he lights it, he watches Dasia fill her arms with paper. Old musings.. unedited poems, beginnings of stories, recollections of the past. All unfinished work; his blood, his sweat, and lastly his tears. He decides not to let her comments slide, feeling a pang of offence, a subtle stab of his ego. Yes you can read it, no there's nothing along those lines, and yes I've read your column, smoke filters out of his mouth as he speaks, his index finger taps ashes into a grubby ashtray. I don't think you're a whore, I think you're fragile and guarded, but you're an admirable woman, there are qualities in you that I think others could learn from, Desmond takes another drag, you should know that I didn't write about you with the intention of flaw... but yea, read away.

-----MUSIC jimi
-----NOTES poo.</sub>

[dasia mae knight]

A coy smile crosses her crimson lips, an eyebrow tilted in challenge. "Are you suggesting that you prefer the film to the book?" she said, before sucking in air, as if wincing. "Dangerous stance for a novelist, Des. Dangerous stance for anyone." She takes another sip of her coffee. The syrup is actually better than sugar, sweetening it but also adding more depth of flavour. Far better. Sans heels, Dasia's eye level is around his chest, and every time she takes a sip of coffee she steals a glance at his arms, believing her objectification of him to be disguised by the rim of the mug. Something about the man and his complete reluctance to treat her like an object made her feel like it was somehow okay for her to turn the tables... well no, not really. Deep down she knew it wasn't really okay, but that didn't stop her feeling a little entitled to the indulgence.    Once in the office she sat up on the desk, clearly adverse to traditional seating. She's surprised that he's let her into this room - before he left, he'd been incredibly protective of his work, only very occasionally doling out a few lines he'd allow her to read, and even then seeming to regret that decision. With the papers in her lap she leans over them, her body language anticipating any attempt he might make to take them back. But he seemed comfortable enough. Feeling slightly voyeuristic, she glanced down at the typed words, feeling like an intruder on his thoughts.     Before she can actually read anything, his retort has left her speechless. Momentarily. "Actually, I'd rather you didn't," she said of her column, knowing that from now on she'd have to edit it a further time, this time not for grammar or style but to make sure it was Des friendly. His next words hit her right in the chest, her cheeks flushing pink at the compliment, her blood heating at the unintentional insult. Opening her mouth to reply, she could only close it again, knowing that anything she was planning to reply with would only prove that she was a) fragile, b) guarded, or, worst of all, c) fragile and guarded. She'd remember that combination of words for a while. A deep breath later and she was calm. "Are you sure I can read this?" she holds up a piece of paper with what looks like a poem typed across it. "I'm very critical of male writers, as you might have noticed." Notes:  ok this sucked. Listening:  pink still.

[desmond hudson]

<sub>-----HE SHAKES his head, combing a hand through his hair, disturbing the brown mass into more of a mess. I guess I am, he agrees reluctantly, the words sliding from his lips with great difficulty; sludging through tar. Stanley took the project and shat all over it.. made it his own, in his head he's thinking of where he stuffed the Stephen King novel, maybe the monstrosity is underneath the floorboards. I just like assholes, he closes his argument, leaving his honour as refined as newly polished silver.

-----SLUMPED in his chair, with his cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, he watches Dasia Mae take in his speech. The harshness of her cheekbones, becoming softer after his words settle in the air, a warm pink flushing through her thick contouring. His own expression softened, familiarity swelling in his chest. This was Odette Beaumont, in the flesh. And he didn't realize she was Dasia until revising his novel for the fourth time, having unintentionally strung the qualities of the women he adored most into a character. Sitting in his crumbling Bali home at midnight, chewing indentations into the tail of a red pen, he read his best friend's vulnerability from the page. And similarly, here he was in his dank New York City apartment, sucking on cancer, his eyes witnessing that same vulnerability.

-----BREAKING the sharpness of the moment, Des leaned forward, turning his face to his right shoulder to blow smoke away from her face. His hands lift to hold hers, adjusting the paper within her fingers. The words 'last call' are scribbled in the corner of the page, and his hazel eyes read each stance carefully. It's a piece of shit poem. Written about his favourite old bar, which had sadly closed down in March, two months after he'd written it. In summary it was about an old man who gets piss drunk at 'The Muddy Water', stretches out last call, and ends up freezing to death on the bar patio. It's morbid, depressing, and typical Desmond. The man lifts his broad shoulders, removes his hands from hers, and shrugs. Go on ahead, tear it down.</sub>

_{-----MUSIC jimi still
-----NOTES lalala this sucks}

[/blockquote]

[dasia mae knight]

She shook her head with exaggerated disappointment, platinum blonde hair falling into her face as she so did. With one fluid movement she had retrieved a hair tie from the pocket of her skintight jeans, and she swooped her hair up into a ponytail, mere wisps left to frame her features. As soon as the action was complete she returned to the task of guarding the papers, not realising she had turned her body ever so slightly away from him once she'd released them, clearly defensive of her spoils. "If that were true, you'd like yourself a lot more than you do." She propped her feet up on his knee, inwardly smiling at the fact that they were long enough to allow this. "Don't worry, I had a pedicure this morning. Shellac, if you were curious. Cutest little Asian lady did them. Is that a racist thing to say? It feels like a slightly racist thing to say, though she was little, Asian and cute."    As was clear from the sudden outpouring of speech, she was starting to ease into her surroundings. Maybe he'd been right about the heels. But it was never entirely comfortable when it was just the two of them, despite their warm familiarity. At least not for Dasia. Used to maintaining as much distance from men as her professionalism would allow, she was not usually keen to touch the opposite sex, to sit near them or to share any sort of intimacy at all. When working a job she found that she most liked being asked to be dominant, as it meant she could avoid contact until absolutely necessary, keeping those she secretly despised at arms distance. On the opposite side of things, she was also used to easy contact with those whom she wanted to touch - Phin, her last "proper" boyfriend, had been so irresistable to her at the time that she had almost got herself fired from the club she worked, since she refused to maintain the no-touching-the-girls rule. Draping herself across him, it had been fairly obvious that physical contact was no problem.    But she was shy around touching Desmond. Like a schoolgirl, she'd steal little moments of contact - propping her feet on his legs, squeezing his cheeks, touching his arm... embarrassingly tame. As his fingers found hers, that blush persisted on and she regretted not having her hair to hide behind. Watching his eyes scan the poem, she made a decision. "No. I don't want to read them anymore, not with you. Can I have one? Any one from this pile, your choice," she thrusted the papers into his hands, "and if there's a blank page in there, you can give me that if you so wish. Any one sheet." Notes: i'm sry that second paragraph was pure word vom. Listening: warpaint.

[desmond hudson]

<sub>-----HIS DARK eyes flick down towards his lap, as she propped her dainty feet, stretching her neatly painted toes. He chews over her words, feeling his insecurities pinpointed, another jab to his shoddy ego. Usually Desmond would have a childlike reaction to this; he'd furrow his brow, shove her feet from his lap, huff, and busy himself in the other room. If there's one thing he didn't take well, it was criticism. He would find himself being incredibly sarcastic to any indication of a negative outlook. His words would spool with creativity, wit, and sarcastic insult, which in the heat of the moment made the other person feel stupid. But on a transcript, his tantrum lacked any sense of logic, and was really only colourful words. This time he took her likely unintentional insult, and buried it within the columns of his mind, remaining still and maintaining his newfound maturity.

-----DASIA's words fell by the wayside, Is that a racist thing to say?, he nodded from her toes back up to her eyes. Wavering his head as if he'd been listening the entire time. His fingered tapped the cigarette against the ashtray, grey dust falling into its graveyard. Like a fawn deep in the forest, her body stiffened in the lightness of his touch. Her feet tremoring, relaxing as his calloused hands slipped from hers. A light smile played behind his whiskers, knowing better than to comment, and repeat his accusation. He'd always been a sensitive person, his soul more tender than he would like to admit. But before his shortlived relationship with Pearl, he'd been an uneasy person. Stiff, and less relaxed. He'd returned to New York a softer, and more gentle man.

-----SHE WAS the opposite. Perhaps alarmed by his shift in disposition, or uncomfortable, maybe she herself had changed in some way. Dasia recoiled against his acceptance, and shoved the papers into his hands. His eyebrow raised curiously, but he took that drunken poem, folded the paper in half and handed it back to her. Save it for later then, he bends the stub of his cigarette into the tray, folding his arms over his chest. Fingers itch for another, but he only has one left, and he'd rather not travel down to the corner store a second time. Desmond takes in the tension, her nerves radiate from her body. What game are we playing?

-----MUSIC jimi
-----NOTES this is awful.</sub>

[dasia mae knight]

Desmond's silence speaks a thousand words. He's quiet often, but usually makes some blithe, brief reply to her ramblings, even if it's just a nod. If there was something Dasia was certainly in possession of it was a big mouth, and often words would slip from her lips unaccounted for, barely even registered by her brain. Listening back to the conversation in her head, she felt a slight twinge of guilt at what she'd said. Des had unintentionally wounded her by calling her fragile (the irony of which was not lost on her), and she'd held on to that and given him her own little jab. Except what she'd said had been a truth that was much more personal, and all the more spiteful for her to throw out there. Not wanting to drag out the momentary fizzle of tension between the two of them, she quietly promised herself she would make it up to him when the opportunity arose.     Ah, there it was, the little nod of acknowledgement. It was more "yes, you said words" than "yes, I'm listening", but she was glad just to be acknowledged. In the past her little snide remarks had caused rifts between them, rifts that were only mended when she brought over copious amounts of baked goods and furiously pretended there was no rift there in the first place. Eventually he'd give in to the charade, and eventually it would become sincere again. But here he was, taking it in stride. She felt all the more awkward for it. Usually she was the breezy one, sauntering through his apartment and riffing off his stiffness. She'd make unnecessary contact and tease him for his resistance. She'd go to rummage through his stuff and pout when he stopped her.     But here she was, being handed his work on a plate, with the boy brushing up against her like it was nothing and her body tensing every time. He'd changed, and maybe she'd changed, but even if she hadn't their dynamic certainly had. She took the page without opening it, carefully placing it next to her as if it was precious, as if it could explain things. Maybe it could. Lost in her own awkwardness, his question prompts her brows to furrow. "What?... oh. Oh." Dasia had completely forgotten the game she'd been thinking of, if she'd even been thinking of one. She searched around the room. "Um.. let's people watch." And with that she got up and stood frigidly by the window, arms folded as she leaned against its frame.     "Point someone out, and guess what their life story is." Notes: iDk. Listening: warpaint.

[desmond hudson]

<sub>-----HIS LONG fingers folded around the case of cigarettes. Slender hands, though hard and woren like the hands of a farmer, and not of a writer. He turned the case within his palms, hoping that in this moment of tension the carton would magically fill itself. This was a refining moment, his hands constantly fidgeting in a silence, speaking what words couldn't. The feeling in the tips of his fingers were what gave him away. Whether it be tapping rim of his coffee mug, tearing at the neck of a beer bottle, or rolling the rectangular box in his hands; these were the things that steal his silence.

-----FINALLY he gives up, tapping the box against his palm and gliding the long white stem between his teeth. He smoothly sets it alight, leaning back in his chair, to knock his head back a send a steady stream of smoke to the ceiling. His other hand cuffs loosely around Dasia's ankle momentarily, before he lifts his head and turns his ears on her. Hm, he hums gently, acknowledging the game with hesitance. Desmond leans forward, making no vocal effort to disagree with Dasia's idea of fun, but his face speaks a thousand words. Tired, and bored, puffing at his cigarette as if lung cancer was his aspiring career.

-----BUT HE follows, trailing behind her prancing body, he looks like he's on death row. Desmond rests those farmer's hands on the window pane, pearing into the dark streets, searching for souls. Him, finger presses against the glass, pointing towards a tanned skinned man. The man is smaller, in his forties, bundled for the arctic and walking away from them. He's from Vietnam, but immigrated twenty years ago. He's been working at the same job since then, at a butcher. He has no kids, no immediate family. Every night when he gets home, he blasts Sweet Home Alabama, and sings along, Desmond sighs, taking a drag, and shakes his head. Absolutely dreadful voice. Lives right below me.

-----MUSIC jimi
-----NOTES w/e w/e.</sub>