ʷʰᵃᵗ ᵇˡᶤˢˢ ᵎᵎ ⁽ ᵃᵖ ⁾

     ❛   father, i want a suit. black pinstripe, like one of yours.   ❜

“ oh,  mi  angelito  de  la  muerte--- “  a  pause  and  a  frown.                                “ i  do  think  you’d  suit  a  dusty  grey  much  better. “

     ❛   me? but — that doesn’t make any sense.   ❜

     he looks like a fine gentleman, but she knows better than to judge men by looks alone. he is… classic. all pinstripes and smoke and honeyed tongue and she is eager to take to him; though not so eager as to forget herself in the possibility of him.

     shyly, she tucks her cheek against her peachy pink fur collar. ❛   there are many other girls here far more deserving of your attentions, i’m sure.   ❜

                         “ oh,  mia STELLINA-----  i  have  rarely  ever  been  a  man  of  sense.  it  can  be  frightfully  dull. “  and  just  like  that  does  he  slink  on  up  to  her,  PERCHED  upon  a  bar stool  now  and  with  his  own  glass  delicate  in  his  hand.  a  DEEP  RED  sits  within  it,  swaying  a  slight  as  gomez  settles.  such  captivating  eyes,  they  sing  to  him  with  a  melody  that  perhaps  she  doesn’t  UNDERSTAND  herself  even.  “ girls  are  pleasant,  yes.  but  angels  are  DIVINE. “

          A THIN BROW ARCHED, gaze never straying from her page as she composed a monthly report to her favourite cousin, Melancholia. The pen wavered for a second, debating briefly whether or not to disclose her husband’s concerns. On one hand, Melancholia might be thrilled to hear Gomez consider such woeful lamentations.  On the other, she may feel slightly upstaged.

A sigh escaped crimson lips, gently chiding, ❝ We have every right to worry…..but think of the lessons nature imparts upon us —— if a vulture doesn’t learn to eat it’s share early on, it will never do so. Then it starves, n'cest pas?  ❞  Her gaze panned up at last, a faint smile settling on her lips.  ❝ Are they digging more graves?  …our darlings.  ❞  

                  suit  striped  forearm  rests  against  the  low  BEAM  before  him,  awning  the  window.  sunlight  filtered  through  at  such  HEIGHT   is  hardly  all  too  unpleasant,  merely  white  light  that  seeks  to  illuminate.  no  rays  all  too  golden  or  joyous  upset  the  balances  of  their  GLOOMY,  stale  little  home  and  that’s  entirely  the  way  they  like  it.  a  MOURNFUL  hum  from  him,  and  he  seems  more  upset  than  his  children  for  their  loss  of  those  days  as  small,  defenceless  things.  at  least,  from  the  WAY  that  wednesday  now  throws  her  hammer  at  a  SCREECHING, tottering  pugsley.                       “ correcto,  mi  amore. “ he  mutters,  in  answering  to  EITHER  of  her  questions.  but  then  gomez  can  feel  that  stare  reach  UPON HIM  and  so  does  he  twist  in  order  to  look  beneath  his  own  upheld  arm.  comical,  no?  and  with  the  best  intention.  to  see  her  smile  is  to  hear  ANGELS  sing,  flowers  could  wilt  at  the  sight.  a  killer  of  all  OTHER  joy  for  no  one  could  be  so  radiant  in  theirs.  but  curiosity  soon  calls  forth  another  hum,  a  short  and  inquisitive  little  squeak.  “ is  it  TIME  for  melancholia’s  monthly  letter  already,  cara?----  i  lose  track  of  the  days,  with  the  FALL  season  now  here . . . “