#isra001

Cynric was reclined back in his office chair with his feet propped up on the desk and a notebook in hand when he heard a set of footsteps approaching. Blinking up from the blank sheet in front of him, he offered up a slight, strained smile at Isra and waved her in, “Hey, come in.” Nodding, he gestured to the open seat on the other side of his desk and shuffled around in his seat, dropping his boots back down to the floor and straightening, “Thanks for comin’, wanted to run somethin’ by ya.” At one point, she’d been just as quick to jump in a fighting ring as him, though over time, he’d noticed that dwindling. Cynric wouldn’t pretend to understand why, especially when he’d made the executive decision a few years ago to never fight again. But he hoped it wasn’t too late for Isra— someone with her talent deserved the chance to showcase it. “Tryin’ to put a card together for a fight next month,” he began, setting the blank notebook down on his desk with a sigh— clearly, he hadn’t made much progress in throwing said card together. “Know it’s been a minute, but how would ya feel about jumpin’ in?” Cynric asked, eyes narrowing slightly as he waited for her reaction. “No pressure,” he was quick to add, “Just tossin’ some ideas around.”

Location: Josephine’s home; Northside 

The book looks back at her from the kitchen counter, taunting her. Josephine might’ve actually laughed, but what do you know, having a dead husband isn’t exactly funny. She understands the sentiment, she really does, but in what world does this actually help? The well meaning New Yorkers she’s met and befriended over the years must’ve all read the same article on what to get those dealing with the heavy title of widow. It led her to prematurely opening a bottle of wine. The dormant, bitter resentment begins spreading as she continues staring down the book, but it stops, temporarily paused by the sound of the doorbell chiming throughout the house. Bringing her wine glass with her, Jo makes her way to the front and opens the door. “Do you have any books on you? No? Good. Come in,” She teases and steps aside, allowing her best friend into her home. “I just received my fourth copy of ‘The Year of Magical Thinking’ by Joan Didion in the mail today. My fourth,” She says, leading Isra to the kitchen. It’s crazy how it all works. When Joan Didion passed away, it was Mitchell who comforted her through the day, as anyone might need when they’ve lost an idol, a hero, someone they look up to. Now with both of them gone and nothing but Joan’s words about grief and losing her own husband left behind, Josephine doesn’t want to seek comfort in their shared experience. She doesn’t want this experience at all. “This one came from an old editor of mine,” She pats the book as she passes it by. “Want it? I have three more copies. At this rate, I think I’ll have at least ten before the year is out,” She jokes as a way to remain in good spirits. “Wine?” Jo offers, moving towards the cabinet for an additional glass.