@dcnimjacket​ –– for oliver !

a slow day. a slow day indeed. between the construction ( that would inevitably bring a chain bookstore ), the internet, and e-readers, the customers were beginning to seem more like a cult: all interested in the same thing, always coming back, always trying to but rarely adding new members… a cult. it was understandable, she supposed – internet and e-readers made for easy access, but how depressing it grew ! as she began returning one book a customer had placed in front of another to its original spot ( some autobiography in front of another autobiography – it was seen often ), one question crossed her mind and one question alone – one she would certainly have to ask oliver. “ what do you think possesses people to write autobiographies ? ” staring down at the unfamiliar face that graced the cover, she continued, “ i mean, not because they’re, like, bad, but, like… if they aren’t a celebrity, like this guy- ” - if nothing else, she was pretty sure the guy on the cover wasn’t a celebrity - “ then why do you think they put their whole life on blast and just, like, hope it’ll sell ? ” ah, perhaps it was projection ( yes, it was definitely projection ), but jo figured it was a fair question !

on slow days in the bookstore, oliver was incredibly grateful for jo. ( although, if he was being honest with himself, he was always grateful for jo. ) still . . . on days like today, when they were the only two people in the bookstore for hours on end, he was especially grateful for her company — for her curious questions and comforting presence. he stopped shelving to peer over her shoulder, squinting at the book in her hands. “i have no idea.” he pulled out another autobiography from the shelf, examining the front. the book was obnoxiously bright with a title font that bore an unfortunate resemblance to papyrus. oliver wasn’t a design expert, but even he knew this was bad. “this cover is terrible.” he mused, more to himself than to her. “i don’t know . . . maybe there’s something therapeutic about the vulnerability? like . . . putting your whole life story out there. even if it doesn’t sell . . . maybe it feels freeing. kinda like a confession.” he placed the book back carefully. “or maybe it’s just about the money. yeah. probably that.”

❀ ༄ : ›   starter  :   open !

lucia morales, princess of panic. evident in the utterly obnoxious clicking of glittered acrylics across her phone, the girl anxiously glares at the email from her next client. be at lax by 6:00am, it read, signed off without a trace of optimism. this is it, her big make or break moment of her social status. cell tucked in her skirt pocket, delilah continues to browse the boutique racks, urgently looking for some type of wow factor to appear between hangers. nose scrunches in dissatisfaction, before tapping on the shoulder of the other person at her side. ‘ hi, you look like you could give me good advice, i need your help, ’  lucia piped, free hand gripping onto her purse straps. ‘ so, major dilemma going on. i’ve got a HUGE client to style back in los angeles next week. cool, right ? but here’s the bad part, and i mean really bad in my books … i’ve got no inspiration. nada, absolutely nothing is inspiring me. but since you’re here, and not busy, i suppose, do you think i could pick your brain for just a few hours and try and style you ? it’d be like a little shopping spree, makeover hangout ‘sesh. i’ll even take you out to eat, so you’re not super hungry. what d’ya say ?  ’   

*  nick robinson. twenty-three. male. he/him.  |  did you see oliver scott this morning on main street? i heard they were heading towards the protests. they’ve been in ballard for their whole life and last time i spoke to them, they were an employee at harris bookshop. if i remember correctly, they’re a libra and they remind me of handwritten notes, loose change, and jean jackets probably because they’re idealistic and impetuous.