did anyone ever tell you that eavesdropping is rude?
*โ. OFF ๐ฎAMPUS SENTENCE STARTERS. ๐ช๏ฝกห * ๐ เฃช ห โท ( @thoseromantics )
๐ฃ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐ ๐๐'๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐-๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐. ๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐'๐ ๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐๐. These days, it's less Sleepless in Seattle and more ... Misconduct in Manhattan. Ghosted in Gotham? Whatever. Pretty Woman? No. Pretty and Petty Woman. Love Actually? Funny -- this looks a lot more like Loathing, Actually.
You get the idea.
It's summertime in New York City, which means every single borough has been magically transformed into a swamp. A soup of sewer mist, agony, and crocodiles. The outside air is barely tolerable, and the subway carts, if the AC is shot, will leave you wondering if you actually died, got chewed up by Satan, and woke up in the inferno of his own stomach bile.
Coincidentally, Marzanna is stuck inside a subway cart.
And the AC is shot.
They've all been marooned here for quite some time now, the conductor yet to offer even a shred of hope or comfort or even static over the intercoms. The passengers have resorted to making light conversations with one another, perhaps surmising that if they're all gonna die of heatstroke within the next couple minutes, they might as well learn each other's favorite movie, color, or genre of music -- though Marzanna, for what it's worth, hasn't said a thing to the man sat beside her, too preoccupied with: 1) wanting to amputate her naked thighs (it's mini-skirt season) because of how sticky they feel against the hard-plastic seat, and 2) rolling her eyes, hard, at every other thing he says to the older gentleman on his left.
The two are talking shop (see: peddling propaganda) around jazz, music's ugliest and most overhyped darling, and it just takes one more pretentious as-fuck sentence coming out of his mouth before she finally lets out an equally pretentious sound out of her mouth. A scoff. A scoff so primadonna loud that Mr. Ray Anthony's lookalike has to turn down his hearing aid.
โ No, actually. I was raised with zero manners. โ Yet, her ankles cross in a finishing-school, Princess Diaries kind of way. Marzanna finally grabs a good look at him, turning her chin, and the blur that's been annoying her immediate periphery had finally come into focus. God. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. So he IS evil. She sucks her teeth, and proposes, โ I think you were, too. Since you are so loud about your wrong opinions. Like a chihuahua. Or a jazz person. โ
Eh. Part of her hopes he'll take the bait. They're stuck inside this ninth-circle simulator for only God knows how long, anyway.
And this is way more fun than asking for his favorite color.
