diah boregard
She calls and he answers. No pretenses, no excuses: it’s as simple as a thumb hovered over a familiar contact, a few seconds of a ringing dial tone and the low voice that interrupts it, asking her where she is this time. Diah’s unsure of just how this little routine of theirs started, but this was always how it went: her feet propped up on the dashboard, a cardboard tray of fast food takeout nestled in her lap, hair blowing in the wind pouring through the cracked window. She feels vaguely like she’s flying, though she’s sobered up enough to recognize that it’s most definitely the effect of the vodka tonics she’d downed that night, her head both heavy with the drowsiness slowly creeping up, but light with the responsibilities she’d shed for the weekend.
Though the most conversation spoken in the vehicle that night had come from the chatty radio host, Diah turned her attention to Holden, brown eyes narrowing in their assessment of him. A long sip was taken from the straw dipped into her strawberry milkshake before it was pointed in his direction with a careless wave. “Don’t you find it a little sad that you always seem to be available when I call?” It was perhaps not her smartest move, to insult the man she consistently found herself receiving help from, but her brain and her mouth had never been on the same page regarding filters, and the introduction of alcohol certainly did not help this.
@hcldens
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He’s dozed off while watching a film when a special ringtone suddenly wakes him up. There’s a split of a second in which he considers missing the call and leave her to her own devices but just before he turns to try to fall back asleep, guilt creeps in and he picks up the phone. It’s a very familiar scene and at this point it almost feels like part of his Friday routine. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees she’s propped up her feet on the dashboard, he reaches and pats a couple times her leg, an indication to put down her feet. He glances at her for a second, it’s almost like a scene of an indie film and if it wasn’t for the crappy pop song playing on the radio he might even be fooled to believe it was. He feels a hint of envy for he hasn’t felt as carefree as Diah in such a long time.
Most of his attention is on the road while some of it —a tiny part— focuses on the song playing on the radio and its repetitive beat, that is, until Diah starts speaking. He gives a dramatic roll of his eyes to her question. “I find sadder that you have to call me almost every Friday. Don't you have friends to call?” Holden attempts to feign irritation—a downturn of his lips, scrunch of his nose—but gave up biting back a small smile. “Also, make sure you keep your head near the window in case you start feeling sick. Just had my car washed.”
