GRACE ASHCROFT: sender, having just moved in next door, arrives at the receiver's house to introduce themselves. @elpiskey
FRAMED IN THE OPEN DOOR, DOVE LOOKS LIKE THE NOCTURNAL CREATURE SHE IS: everything pale, sapped of pigment. her skin takes on colour easily, and perhaps that's why she's got this pallor now ⸺ living by night the way she does means moonlight's the only thing that's got the opportunity to shade her anymore. if the door was open wide enough, the woman opposite her might have been able to see the curtains that remain drawn, the home still suspended in something darker, quieter.
as it is, she holds the door open with one hip, the weight pressing on a curve of bone. a variation on atlas.
"you're very kind to come over and introduce yourself, grace."
dove smiles, and it feels soft at the edges. tenderized by the recent pull from sleep and nostalgia for something she didn't know existed. she used to believe this was the kind of thing neighbours really did, back when she was a child. that elsewhere in the world, people came around with open palms rather than closed fists, bringing something rather than taking it. later, as a woman living on the flipside of the city, she realized that not only is the grass greener on the other side, but the people are pinker. more full of blood, life, kindness. care.
she doesn't believe the other side of the hill, the city block, exists anymore. but grace is very pink, in this light.
"it's not the kind of thing people really do anymore, is it?"
her head comes to rest on the doorframe, hair folding over the top of one eye. she'd like to ask about the things shuffled in from the hall that bore the bright, happy colours and worn edges — the signs things loved by a child, or children — but there's a man half-asleep in the bedroom, and while perhaps he isn't a danger to grace specifically, he has sharp edges, and dove can't help but install a distance between the two as a buffer of safety. a matter of childproofing.
it's the same reason she keeps the entry resting against her hip, rather than open for invitation.
"i have to admit, i feel like a very poor neighbour for not doing it first. you must be exhausted from all that unpacking, and you've still managed to find time to get over here. i'm not sure i—" her gaze turns backward, into the nest of her home. she pauses, considering. "i'm not sure this place is quite fit for visitors, but i should really offer you something. a coffee."
