armeyets: fatws. (pic#14819777)
πš‹πšžπšŒπš”πš’ πš‹πšŠπš›πš—πšŽπšœ. ([personal profile] armeyets) wrote2021-03-20 09:00 pm
secretare: (dds3-karen029)

β†’ if you show me yours.

[personal profile] secretare 2021-08-10 01:06 am (UTC)(link)
( a gentle patter of rain has picked up against the city streets, almost as if coercing them sweetly to duck back indoors, to huddle beneath doorsteps or hurry their limbs to one or the other's apartment for when and if the sky decided to open it's mouth wider. it's nothing she shies against, despite the opaque taupe of her shirt, enjoying the ever so often pricks of cool droplets that tease her temple, adding a welcome, slight chill to the summer air that sticks to the back of her neck. she'd managed to drag him to a homey sort of theater β€” one that offered drinks throughout the film, worn and staticky at times.

it's an adaptation of a book she's read countless times over, and despite how enamored she remained throughout it's life, she's walked away a bit disappointed. books were never quite the same when they weren't just words. she figures a lot of things are that way.

she thinks to hook her hand at the crook of his arm beside her, yet despite the fact that they've grown familiar with one another's flesh, there's a hesitance there. something that can't be taken back once it's breached, that casual touch, the thoughtlessness of it β€” normal. instead she takes to holding her own ribs as they walk, none in a hurry and lazing side to side with their steps, almost as if neither of them are willing just yet to end the night. and so they walk, aimlessly at best; he'd mentioned the theater was closer to his place. the note of just that hums in the back of her mind, a careful reminder. prodding.

she sifts through her mind for an excuse to keep him just a bit longer. they were, in fact, walking the streets of a city that hardly slept. she thinks to suggest thai... takeout, perhaps? she'll chew on it a bit longer.
)

It was just too... I don't know, gaudy. Like it was trying too hard to make you feel something rather than just letting you decide how to feel. You know? With a book, you can take it apart however you want to. You can't be wrong.

( bars chatter noisily as they make their way past various entrances, content to stay on the outskirts, a world for just them. a grin bears across her lips, feeling almost silly for how long she's dragged this out, but a sigh leaves her as if it's refused to let go of her. )

Maybe I'm being too much of a critic.