#pulitzerlost

FIRST MEETING STARTERS.

      HE HAD TO THINK ON THIS ONE.  had  he  been  to  any  parties  where  he’d  left  the  place  sober  ?  and  if  so,  would  he  have  remembered  a  face  like  hers  ?  surely.  she  had  one  of  those  sombre  and  detached  jean  luc  godard  faces  —  if  you  had  the  chance  to  look  directly  into  her  eyes,  you’d  either  get  a  glare  or  a  glaze.  playing  it  safe,  he  decided  to  take  on  the  role  of  the  honest  abe.  

      in  a  surprisingly  low  tone,  which  was  roughened  further  by  his  accent,  he  gave  his  answer:  ❛❛  been  to  a  fair  share  ov  par’ies,  so  you’ll  ‘ave  to  be  a  bit  more  specific..  ❜❜  he  punctuated  it  with  a  little  twitch  of  his  brow,  all  the  while  purposely  avoiding  the  pierce  of  her  stare  beneath  the  hood  of  his  eyelids. 

     there was a time this would have frightened her. when she was still new to the world and so in love with life that the thought of dying would paralyze her in the darkest hours of the night and leave her weeping on the dirty floor of the barn, prostrating herself over and over, begging for mercy. millie exhales jets of smoke from her nostrils. 

     but she is not the girl she was when she was new to the world. nor will she ever be again.

     she stares blankly through joan, seeing all, seeing nothing. her cigarette hisses as it splashes into the last dregs of her tea. it’s nothing personal, her leaving. and it’s odd because she hopes joan knows that. but hers is one stillborn prophecy too many, and millie is too exhausted to entertain the thought of dying again from someone who can’t die correctly, herself. staying would be worse. it always is.

     “ thanks for the tea. ” she tugs zipper of her jacket up to her throat. warmest chokehold she’s ever been in. “ we’ll talk soon. ”

        the embarrassment was written clearly on her face; eyes sheepish and cheeks bright red. she waited for the s c o l d i n g that would surely come. except it didn’t. the silence stretched on until sansa raised her eyes ever so slightly. SURPRISE mingled with embarrassment when she noticed that the other woman appeared more confused at sansa’s reaction instead of angry at her.          ❝  my... my PRIDE is bruised. ❞

      ❛ my ex is fucking a man my mother introduced to her. you didn’t need to hear that, but i needed to say something because if i didn’t i’d write about it and she’d threaten to sue me again. ❜

           lanky fingers wiggle in the warmth of his worn jean pockets, feeling at the wedding band he was going to pawn later today. metal made him break out if he wore it too long, or if it rubbed against his thigh for hours, so he put it there, knowing he’d have to, knowing if he didn’t he’d have a red, irritated patch to remind him he’d not followed his own rules. it’d been two years, she’d moved on, he’d asked her for the divorce; there was no sense in carrying around emptying objects that represented nothing more than failure. there was no sense in telling random women about who they belonged to, either, but he’d felt compelled. 

     hatred was impolite, so he used disdain instead, justifying that the red-head he’d thought he loved deserved it. she had been so meek, so willing; one would think a man--or any human, for that matter--would enjoy that sort of submissiveness, but hers always came with a quiet, subtle passive aggressiveness. she’d taken years from him, and now she took minutes; he couldn’t find ways to escape her quick enough. 

@pulitzerlost liked this for a starter from Mikey.

         The boss scratches at her nose, an absent gesture while her mind is clearly at work elsewhere. "Y'know, early street gangs, at least in America, emerged out of a need for police. Yeah, Google that shit. The cops didn't want to go into the really bad neighborhoods, and they didn't really care if you were an immigrant, so back in the day, if you were black or Irish or some shit, you were on your own. In tightly packed areas of intense fuckin' poverty, people get desperate, crime rates go up, you know, all that shit. So they had to make their own order. Had to do shit their own way." She leans back in her seat, her gaze more direct now. Maybe this woman didn't care. Maybe she'd be no better than Jane Valderamma, but maybe not.

LISTEN IT’S YOUR TURN THE GEMINIS HAVE HAD ENOUGH NOW YOU KNOW HOW WE FEEL!!!