( adjuramus te )

┇ ❝ Fingertips clasp tensely round a pink flip phone as if trying to press her own discomfort into its metallic cladding as she fumbles. She deprecates new faces like no other, though particularly those that expect her to open up -- and weren’t it for the temporary stay away from home, it wouldn’t have required a transient change of therapists. She likes her own one back in Paris, a woman in her fifties, always wearing gold-framed glasses and talking as if she knew Angelique would rather be sat at home, drinking wine, trying to comprehend old poetry. Romanticising, she calls it, forcefully making the task to heal a beautiful thing. That it’s a hard one is left unspoken. 

She brings her gaze up from the floor, momentarily meeting her counterpart’s contemplative eyes, and casting it off elsewhere. “ Dr. de Beauvoir would begin our sessions by asking me how I felt that day. If you plan to do the same, monsieur, I’m doing fine. “ Her voice drips heavily, accent thick and melodic though words heavy, somehow, depleted and quiet. She knows her presence during the sessions inevitably, if slowly, is meant to help her heal but her posture says otherwise.

scenario: your muse and Chris are friends/room mates

“No, dude, listen. Pineapple on pizza is god send, okay. There’s a whole bunch of humans out there who appreciates it as much as I do, so shut up and eat your boring pepperoni pizza. More pineapple on pizza for me!” Chris snaps with a laugh, then proceeds to pour more tabasco sauce onto his slice. The double pepper kind, at that.

The good mood was ruined soon when his phone rang, though. “Ah fuck,” he curses with a full mouth, hastily typing a reply. “Fuckin’ work won’t leave me alone on a Saturday night. Shit heads.”

┇ ❝· His brows are quick to furrow as if he takes genuine offense -- but he eyes the odd appearance of his own food regardless, mumbling something about having ordered a vegetable pizza; but god knows, he’s not about to make a scene and just pick the brownish pieces of pepperoni off the dish. And even then, he’s not even given a chance to grin at his room mate’s enthusiasm; his phone rings and Harry leans back, nodding empathetically as he takes a bite off the dismembered pizza slice. 

┇ ❝  Men never learn to knock, do they, “ a meaningless banter slipping over her lips as a hand reached out to place aside the glass; & a joke, certainly, as the entrance to the pub had remained open ( the sign reading ‘ closed ‘ only hanging loosely on the doorknob. ) The clock had struck four in the morning, the sun wouldn’t rise for another hour -- leaving her enough time to clean the mess the boys had lived behind. Every Sunday they would, carelessly as young bachelors, gather to the most obnoxiously pretentious jazz music & drink their scotch, talking about women & poker. What such was meant to achieve was left for interpretation; Daisy, for one, enjoyed her days off. “ You want anything to drink? Whiskey, soda, a Sookie Stackhouse? “

                              ( A repressed chuckle. Hardly anyone ever got the joke. )

            “ I’m all yours until sunrise, big boy -- unless you’re waiting for Angel’s shift to start. “