tampopo.

"why the hell not?" cecil doesn't believe in censoring his all-american theatre-person bluster, even around ladies like rosalind. he imagines it gets tiring having to hold oneself a certain way all the time. they all seem so removed, so poised—that's no life!

but here,   curled into one end of a chaise,   her chin perched along the fold of her arms,   it hasn’t felt so heavy.   she was content to listen,   bobbing along in @1stlady’s wake as she filled the air with a steady stream of pleasant chatter.   leading her expertly through the nuances of fashion.   of form and silhouettes,   the effects and weights of various textiles.   it’s a moment before she catches it,   the spout tapering off as some stray thought,   or memory,   pounced.   in the encroaching quiet,   lizzie straightens,   brows faintly knitting. "go somewhere?"

i was just thinking about this blue dress that my mother used to have.

@1stlady said . . . “ hey, wait for me! no one should be left alone to dress and to accessorize!”

" i wouldn't dream of it! " brooke calls back over her shoulder, already giddy at the prospect of rose's expert assistance. she's a fashion maven herself, but two sets of discerning eyes are always better than one. there's no one's taste she values more. especially not when it's for an occasion as important as this.

Moonlight spilled through the window like a guilty secret, painting what was likely, B O T H their sleepless faces with an ethereal glow. Rosalind's offer hung in the air, warm and grounding, as if she had handed Carmen an ANCHOR in the tide of her restless thoughts. And she leaned against the doorway, her red coat a flame against the shadows of the warmly lit room. Her hands, usually so precise, toyed absently with the rim of her hat, as though searching for a purpose that had slipped out of reach. For a fleeting moment, she looked like a child—uncertain, caught between mischief and melancholy. Still, a faint smile softened her face, tired but teasing, her words strung together with the playfulness of someone who refused to let exhaustion win entirely. “Tea? Is that your remedy for insomnia, Rosalind?” she asked, her voice low but touched with a wry lilt. “If I start drinking it now, do you think I’ll inherit your wisdom? Or just your sleepless nights?”

rays of sunlight , as they pour in , blind him , provoking a shield of five fingers . they wipe at his eyes , smear the tiredness that tugs at his face , run back the messiness of untidy hair , while the rest of his fingers remain a ghost , absent as they ever were . he wishes she wouldn't see him like this , with arm cast away , among the other elements of his mess that take up the space on the floor , the coffee table , the spot next to him for which he calls a makeshift bed . even in his prime years , he's always kept a relatively healthy amount of clutter in tact , even in his listless moments , for he always relied on himself to keep a neat and well put - together facade up . but here , among the lack of purpose , his innards are now beginning to drain , unraveling as the length of his time here , lost and aimless and looking , proves to be futile . they say the new york is the city of dreams . so , why couldn't he manage to build his from the ground up again ? like he once had , long ago .