( two )

[caipirinha]

my character gets into bed with yours, or vice versa;
what happens?
have you crawled under the covers for some friendly
cuddles, or are your intentions not so innocent?
are you planning some form of practical joke, or are
you just plain drunk?
maybe you just have no idea what's going on.

( adapted from the plurk meme! )

Comments

[disappearing]

[ He tries not to feel too conscious of Riley wriggling closer, but it's a little bit distracting. There's a pause before he answers, wondering if this is really an appropriate or enjoyable shift in conversation. Still, it's not something that he's ever really been given a chance to do with others, talking about things that've happened. ]

I'm divorced. [ There. It's simpler to say than he thought. ] And I think I saw it coming years ago, but never really accepted it because I wanted to be settled and have stability more than I wanted the actual relationship.

[davidsons]

[She opens one eye, the greyish blue searching for an expression there, though more from curiosity than shock.]

Why did you want that stability so much? [She could understand it, but she doubted it were for that same reason as her.]

[disappearing]

Because my parents wanted me to have stability. [ He shrugs a little, lightly. His expression remains fairly impassive, calm. ] And I trusted them to know what was best for me, but it wasn't what I was looking for, I just took what came along and hoped for the best.

[ Another little pause, where he wants to shrug again, but restrains himself. He wants to potentially give a theory as to why the divorce happened, but he realises it'd be just that: theory. He still doesn't actually know, considering that his memories of the previous year are still very much in limbo somewhere. ]

[davidsons]

[She supposes she knows what he's talking about. She had a vague sense that regardless of all the shit she pulled, her mother wanted nothing but the best for her, the best for them. The problem with her mother was that she was too wild a heart, stuck to a dream of ravenous romance that was only fuelled by the Harley Davidson her father left her. She still remembered the occasional scent of alcohol, gasoline and fumes that stuck to her mother's clothes, even when they were huddling together for warmth under the patchwork blanket she wore now as a tunic every now and then. She figures that parents were always like this, a little reckless but always well-intended.]

[So she sighs, and her voice acquires a small, nostalgia-laced and fragile lilt - one that is rare, unconsciously smothered by that "move on, move on, move on" attitude that adds the gait to her walk.] You can't really blame them, right?