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etherthiefEnd of a long, hard day. Wilmot's, again.
She shouldn't have done this.
She keeps fiddling with the cheap burner she got to replace her ROMAC phone, thumbs tapping idly against the buttons without typing, plagued by a powerful itch to text Greta and tell her no, nevermind, it's nothing, don't come.
She needs this, though. And there is no one else. Really, there never has been.
As if Greta doesn't have her own needs, her own life, someone else's children to attend to, as if Iman hasn't already drawn her in far enough, involved her, brought Durant to her doorstep, endangered the children. And now the woman is coming to meet her well across town because she needs it - wants it - needs it.
Selfish, arrogant little girl.
She sets her finished whisky down too hard with a crunch that draws a few people to look up; her hand flexes and loosens and she frowns darkly at the telling crack in the glass. She runs her thumb over it, smoothing it out, mending it slowly. She'll have to do that with the mug she broke this morning, when she finally goes back home. Hasn't been since she woke up. Her clothes are all mussed and a little bloodied, not enough that she draws attention, but enough that Greta will notice. And she doesn't have her hijab. Her hair keeps getting in her face. She doesn't like it. She brushes it back angrily with a sweep of her hand.
What is she going to say to Greta, even?
What more can she ask of that woman?
She sets the fixed glass down on the edge of the table and signals the server for another.
She shouldn't have done this.
She keeps fiddling with the cheap burner she got to replace her ROMAC phone, thumbs tapping idly against the buttons without typing, plagued by a powerful itch to text Greta and tell her no, nevermind, it's nothing, don't come.
She needs this, though. And there is no one else. Really, there never has been.
As if Greta doesn't have her own needs, her own life, someone else's children to attend to, as if Iman hasn't already drawn her in far enough, involved her, brought Durant to her doorstep, endangered the children. And now the woman is coming to meet her well across town because she needs it - wants it - needs it.
Selfish, arrogant little girl.
She sets her finished whisky down too hard with a crunch that draws a few people to look up; her hand flexes and loosens and she frowns darkly at the telling crack in the glass. She runs her thumb over it, smoothing it out, mending it slowly. She'll have to do that with the mug she broke this morning, when she finally goes back home. Hasn't been since she woke up. Her clothes are all mussed and a little bloodied, not enough that she draws attention, but enough that Greta will notice. And she doesn't have her hijab. Her hair keeps getting in her face. She doesn't like it. She brushes it back angrily with a sweep of her hand.
What is she going to say to Greta, even?
What more can she ask of that woman?
She sets the fixed glass down on the edge of the table and signals the server for another.
