specters among oranges, 2 for 1 [lalia, mayor blitz]
Jan 27, 2019 20:46:05 GMT -5
Post by shrimp on Jan 27, 2019 20:46:05 GMT -5
ARTHUR CLEMENTS
The supermarket's florescents are obnoxious. He squints, peering at the words that seem to swim, double vision blurring and clarifying as he moves the parcel back and forth. Eventually, he sighs, dropping the instant noodles into his cart with a soft thud.
Arthur Clements needs new glasses; this prescription's been outdated for years by now, and he knows it's only making things worse. But with a new prescription comes a new frame, and this one... This frame's been with him through a lot - there's far too many dents from when he drops them midsleep, or bangs into a wall. But there's love etched in each mark, each blemish and crack.
Amelia had cleaned these often, and badly, rubbing them with her sweater until it was a smeared-over mess. Once, in a fit of joking around, she had accidentally dropped them into a pot of pasta sauce. They were never quite the same after that. Galaxy would take them off of his face as he snored in his chair, dropping a blanket on him with a roughness befitting of a teenager.
He feels regret now, often. Back then he was always so angry, so quick to lay down his frustration with spitfire words and an earthquake of demands. Nowadays, he doesn't know what to feel.Doesn't know if he feels. That's okay, he figures. It must be.
A specter passes by, he blinks twice before following. How could he forget her? The only one besides him to go to Galaxy, cloistered in the Justice Building? The only one who cared, truly cared, as her body went up in flames?
"Calliope," he says softly, voice hoarse from lack of sleep. He probably - no, should, call her Mayor Bloom. But he's been long past the point of caring about titles. Titles didn't save his wife, titles didn't save his daughter. Only actions would have. Actions like what Calliope has set in motion.
"It's good to see you - how have you been?"
The supermarket's florescents are obnoxious. He squints, peering at the words that seem to swim, double vision blurring and clarifying as he moves the parcel back and forth. Eventually, he sighs, dropping the instant noodles into his cart with a soft thud.
Arthur Clements needs new glasses; this prescription's been outdated for years by now, and he knows it's only making things worse. But with a new prescription comes a new frame, and this one... This frame's been with him through a lot - there's far too many dents from when he drops them midsleep, or bangs into a wall. But there's love etched in each mark, each blemish and crack.
Amelia had cleaned these often, and badly, rubbing them with her sweater until it was a smeared-over mess. Once, in a fit of joking around, she had accidentally dropped them into a pot of pasta sauce. They were never quite the same after that. Galaxy would take them off of his face as he snored in his chair, dropping a blanket on him with a roughness befitting of a teenager.
He feels regret now, often. Back then he was always so angry, so quick to lay down his frustration with spitfire words and an earthquake of demands. Nowadays, he doesn't know what to feel.
A specter passes by, he blinks twice before following. How could he forget her? The only one besides him to go to Galaxy, cloistered in the Justice Building? The only one who cared, truly cared, as her body went up in flames?
"Calliope," he says softly, voice hoarse from lack of sleep. He probably - no, should, call her Mayor Bloom. But he's been long past the point of caring about titles. Titles didn't save his wife, titles didn't save his daughter. Only actions would have. Actions like what Calliope has set in motion.
"It's good to see you - how have you been?"
