Post by Deleted on Aug 16, 2013 20:32:21 GMT
—damien
Imagine a gentleman's parlor - spic and span - liquor chocolates wrapped in their shiny foils on a solid desk, and to the side, a couple of old arm chairs with clawed feet and a table between them. There is a pipe and a deck of cards next to a gold-foil box of cigars.
But this melts away into two metal fold-outs, and fan rotating between them. The fat, sheening desk, is replaces by a row of white whirlpools reflecting the stale light above. Moths are trapped inside, and beat themselves against the plastic lamp. This is a cheap laundromat, and he is playing cards with rumplestilskin's poker face - wavy patches of an ancient burn scar running down the left side.
Both held a fat, short Cuban cigar, biting the rolls in their molars. The fan blew their smoke out the window so it would not disturb the late-night costumers. His adversary was a shrewd man - never letting gambling hinder his business, though he always welcomed a game with the Englishman.
"Haven't seen you in a while, Mista H.," he suddenly noted breaking the silence. "But you've lost again. Two hundred dollars. Tsk tsk. Where do you get it all living out here? Sometimes, I wonder if you're just throwing it away, ya saint."
Damien's face reddened, and he took the cigar from his mouth to relax into the fan. He was getting tired of getting beaten in this dingy shop that it had become an important place to persuade luck from. Tonight, he hadn't been eloquent enough. "All right," he said, glaring at the wad of fives and tens he'd lost. "All right, let's call it night, yah lucky devil. I swear to God, I'll clean you out the first chance I get," he finished with a tired mutter. He wave his hand in a gesture that meant he was bothered, but his voice was toneless and weak at this hour.
Getting up, he hauled open the door of a dryer and began to pull out the laundry only to realize two handfuls in that it wasn't his.
—valencia
Despite the fact that Val lived alone, and had been for many years, she was still lacking in many aspects of a “bachelorette", as her coworkers dubbed her. Meaning, she mainly ate out or had instant food (cup noodles equals heaven), her fridge was basically empty, and she didn’t own a washing machine.
Therefore, every week or so found her at the local laundromat, fishing out coins from pockets stuffed with scraps of papers (important or otherwise). Usually, since it took a while, she brought her sketchbook, or occasionally a good book that she found at the used bookstore. This time, however, she had her sketchbook but forgot a drawing utensil (the artist detested using pens in her personal book) and so had wandered out of the laundromat, intending to return an hour or so later to pick it up.
What Valencia did not expect was a stranger (a man, no less) holding a couple of her shirts (one of them was her favorite t-shirt, she noticed) and underwear in his grip. ‘Oh goodness, that’s embarrassing,’ she thought, cheeks reddening at the sight of her undergarments in a stranger’s grasp. “Excuse me," she coughed, looking somewhat frazzled. “May I ask what you are doing with my laundry?"
—damien
Damien shifted to meet the hesitant owner. He put the first clump wordlessly back inside the dryer. Her eyes took in her laundry like haywire fairies, and he found it odd to run into a woman like her at this time of evening.
"I've had a long night, ma'am," he said, excusing himself and sighing. As he put a second clump back inside, Damien pulled out her underwear. He paused, judging the style.
"I suppose I apologize?" he said, looking at her again. The resentment of a cold jester managed to slither into his tired smile.
—valencia
"I-I see." Valencia could only watch helplessly as the man replaced her laundry back into the machine, biting her lip anxiously. There was a moment when he looked at her underwear, and she swore that he was judging it. This did not sit well with her, and she had half a mind to throw her precious sketchbook.
His voice roused her from any more disconcerting thoughts and she looked to meet his tired smile with an uneasy one. "I suppose you do," she replied slowly, stepping forward to take her undergarments from his grasp with an embarrassed air. "And I suppose I forgive you, Mr...?"
—damien
"Call me Damien," he filled in with a mad midnight chuckle as she snatched the undies. You could tell a lot about a woman by the cut and color of her underwear. Damien, per say, knew enough.
He took another step and opened another dryer. This time he checked if it was his own. He pulled out a familiar pair boxers briefs and looked at them for a second as they became familiar in his tired mind. Finally, he began to unload his laundry in clumsy hunks.
"It is beyond me how a woman of your face could wear such a cut," his British accent rather poignant and snooty in that line.
—valencia
"Damien," Valencia repeated, stepping over to the dryer that contained her clothes. "That's a...lovely name," she commented, for lack of anything better to say. She lifted the purple basket that sat on top of the machine, placing her sketchbook in its place, and dropped her underwear in the basket before reaching into the dryer to grab a handful of her clothes.
Her cheeks colored (how many times was she going to blush that night?) and Valencia hastily shoved another handful into the basket. "Well," she said indignantly. "It's not like people can see what kind of underwear I have on everyday, so it shouldn't matter." She paused, leaning into the dryer to grab the last handful of clothes. "Besides," the artist dropped the shirts into her basket with a huff. "There's nothing wrong with stripes at all."
—damien
Damien dragged clumps of his humbler slacks and button-ups into his laundry sack. He shuffled to hide the whites. Damien wasn't used to doing laundry, and a red sock had gotten into the load..
"Really? I think laundry says a lot about about a person. Underwear. The colors," he muttered, clearing his throat, and tossing her a scandalous face. "Why do you like to wear stripes where no one can see?"
Damien liked small talk, especially with women. While he spoke, he thought of how he could fix the color of pink shirts. Maybe that personal assistant could be put to use. Maybe he could give them to his brother. He couldn't keep him. They didn't suit him.
@valencia
Imagine a gentleman's parlor - spic and span - liquor chocolates wrapped in their shiny foils on a solid desk, and to the side, a couple of old arm chairs with clawed feet and a table between them. There is a pipe and a deck of cards next to a gold-foil box of cigars.
But this melts away into two metal fold-outs, and fan rotating between them. The fat, sheening desk, is replaces by a row of white whirlpools reflecting the stale light above. Moths are trapped inside, and beat themselves against the plastic lamp. This is a cheap laundromat, and he is playing cards with rumplestilskin's poker face - wavy patches of an ancient burn scar running down the left side.
Both held a fat, short Cuban cigar, biting the rolls in their molars. The fan blew their smoke out the window so it would not disturb the late-night costumers. His adversary was a shrewd man - never letting gambling hinder his business, though he always welcomed a game with the Englishman.
"Haven't seen you in a while, Mista H.," he suddenly noted breaking the silence. "But you've lost again. Two hundred dollars. Tsk tsk. Where do you get it all living out here? Sometimes, I wonder if you're just throwing it away, ya saint."
Damien's face reddened, and he took the cigar from his mouth to relax into the fan. He was getting tired of getting beaten in this dingy shop that it had become an important place to persuade luck from. Tonight, he hadn't been eloquent enough. "All right," he said, glaring at the wad of fives and tens he'd lost. "All right, let's call it night, yah lucky devil. I swear to God, I'll clean you out the first chance I get," he finished with a tired mutter. He wave his hand in a gesture that meant he was bothered, but his voice was toneless and weak at this hour.
Getting up, he hauled open the door of a dryer and began to pull out the laundry only to realize two handfuls in that it wasn't his.
—valencia
Despite the fact that Val lived alone, and had been for many years, she was still lacking in many aspects of a “bachelorette", as her coworkers dubbed her. Meaning, she mainly ate out or had instant food (cup noodles equals heaven), her fridge was basically empty, and she didn’t own a washing machine.
Therefore, every week or so found her at the local laundromat, fishing out coins from pockets stuffed with scraps of papers (important or otherwise). Usually, since it took a while, she brought her sketchbook, or occasionally a good book that she found at the used bookstore. This time, however, she had her sketchbook but forgot a drawing utensil (the artist detested using pens in her personal book) and so had wandered out of the laundromat, intending to return an hour or so later to pick it up.
What Valencia did not expect was a stranger (a man, no less) holding a couple of her shirts (one of them was her favorite t-shirt, she noticed) and underwear in his grip. ‘Oh goodness, that’s embarrassing,’ she thought, cheeks reddening at the sight of her undergarments in a stranger’s grasp. “Excuse me," she coughed, looking somewhat frazzled. “May I ask what you are doing with my laundry?"
—damien
Damien shifted to meet the hesitant owner. He put the first clump wordlessly back inside the dryer. Her eyes took in her laundry like haywire fairies, and he found it odd to run into a woman like her at this time of evening.
"I've had a long night, ma'am," he said, excusing himself and sighing. As he put a second clump back inside, Damien pulled out her underwear. He paused, judging the style.
"I suppose I apologize?" he said, looking at her again. The resentment of a cold jester managed to slither into his tired smile.
—valencia
"I-I see." Valencia could only watch helplessly as the man replaced her laundry back into the machine, biting her lip anxiously. There was a moment when he looked at her underwear, and she swore that he was judging it. This did not sit well with her, and she had half a mind to throw her precious sketchbook.
His voice roused her from any more disconcerting thoughts and she looked to meet his tired smile with an uneasy one. "I suppose you do," she replied slowly, stepping forward to take her undergarments from his grasp with an embarrassed air. "And I suppose I forgive you, Mr...?"
—damien
"Call me Damien," he filled in with a mad midnight chuckle as she snatched the undies. You could tell a lot about a woman by the cut and color of her underwear. Damien, per say, knew enough.
He took another step and opened another dryer. This time he checked if it was his own. He pulled out a familiar pair boxers briefs and looked at them for a second as they became familiar in his tired mind. Finally, he began to unload his laundry in clumsy hunks.
"It is beyond me how a woman of your face could wear such a cut," his British accent rather poignant and snooty in that line.
—valencia
"Damien," Valencia repeated, stepping over to the dryer that contained her clothes. "That's a...lovely name," she commented, for lack of anything better to say. She lifted the purple basket that sat on top of the machine, placing her sketchbook in its place, and dropped her underwear in the basket before reaching into the dryer to grab a handful of her clothes.
Her cheeks colored (how many times was she going to blush that night?) and Valencia hastily shoved another handful into the basket. "Well," she said indignantly. "It's not like people can see what kind of underwear I have on everyday, so it shouldn't matter." She paused, leaning into the dryer to grab the last handful of clothes. "Besides," the artist dropped the shirts into her basket with a huff. "There's nothing wrong with stripes at all."
—damien
Damien dragged clumps of his humbler slacks and button-ups into his laundry sack. He shuffled to hide the whites. Damien wasn't used to doing laundry, and a red sock had gotten into the load..
"Really? I think laundry says a lot about about a person. Underwear. The colors," he muttered, clearing his throat, and tossing her a scandalous face. "Why do you like to wear stripes where no one can see?"
Damien liked small talk, especially with women. While he spoke, he thought of how he could fix the color of pink shirts. Maybe that personal assistant could be put to use. Maybe he could give them to his brother. He couldn't keep him. They didn't suit him.
@valencia
