#06.13.18

“Will You Accept This Rose?” Podcast with Arden Myrin

"Marshmellow Johnny Cash!" W/ Paget Brewster and Ralph Garman 

when: june 13, 2018. Sunset where: pier 62 who: open

The streets of Manhatten still blazed to life with dazzling lights and cars that blared down streets still slick with that day’s rain. A few couples remained scattered around, giggling into each other’s shoulders as they huddled underneath the shared umbrellas that dotted the landscape. Lovers shared kisses beneath the fading sun and even fewer shared breath with the trading of cigarettes passed between lips. Gale remained one of the latter with a cigarette pressed firmly between his fingers and breathing death into his lungs. One of the perks of healing at least allowed him some brief respite from the cancer that plagued this delightful pastime. 

Gale wandered down the sidewalk and veered toward the pier, craving the calming arc of the waves. Few of the families remained but in the distance he could still see the swirling collection of animals as the carousel slowed to allow the children to scatter. He cracked a smile, the dimple in his cheek poking free as he put out his cigarette and went for another. There was a bit of a shuffle as he went to dig out the lighter from his jacket pocket only for it to tumble through his fingers and slip through the cracks of the pier and then- 

Ploop. 

“Fuck,” he swore, turning to the person next to him. “You got a light? Just not my night.” 

Ro was wandering the piers, thinking of her conversation she’d had here not long ago with Princess Camellia. Memories haunted the shoreline, the raindrops making piercing echoes through time, ricocheting sounds and faces until they blurred like watercolour. It had been raining that day, too. At the edge of the pier, she caught sight of Gale—a welcome sight—and walked toward him. It had been awhile since they’d talked and she wondered how he was doing; he got into these brooding moods where no one would see him for weeks, just representations of him as he sent letters for his books or made swift appointments with sunken eyes. Was there ever a man more suited to the rain?

“Oi!” Ro said, announcing her arrival because the slick of the rain muffled the tread of her boots which usually introduced her. She could stalk cat quiet and fly bird fast, but because she unsettled people so, she chose to walk with noise and purpose. Both as a warning and a courtesy. “Can’t say I do, I’m afraid. Not much of a smoker.” That wasn’t her brand of poison—not that it was really poison for people like her. More, it didn’t do her any favours and made her hair smell of things other than running and war, and she didn’t care for it. “Where’s a Fairburn when you need one?” she chuckled; as an air fey, should couldn’t do much for him other than—

I’m sick of this dream, where I wake up every

24 hours and you’re still