*𝒔𝒌𝒚 𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒍 𝒐𝒇 𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒈. @birdydunn - Tumblr Blog

*𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕.

dossier.

musings.

visage.

#*𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒅.

sleepymickey

#*𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒆.#fksjlkjflkljfsd

*𝒆𝒛𝒓𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒔𝒉.

there’s a lot to call depressing, so ezra tends not to call it at all. but… but this. her? and… a convenient store, really? there’s a slushy-machine groaning nearby, persistent buzz of a refrigerator that creeps down his neck, the hum of an oven keeping packed pies maybe not decent, but hot enough that it doesn’t matter. well– doesn’t matter much. it’s comical. that words like this are shared here. the shirt sizes too small? again, comical. oh, but twigs is keeping something from him, tight-lip’d and short. his mother dubs mistakes hiccups, and somewhere here ezra’s got it wrong. right! gotcha. means something. a hiccup, amongst the many, many others. he would have pried, once. it just goes away from them now. ah. this he shouldn’t have forgotten. not that direct way, so full of concern, not on her. why would she ask him that? before it can be held, ezra’s brows furrow. why would you ask me that? it’s bitten down— his tongue. he could draw blood. he could. hands? — they’re caught grasping the counter. soon to un-clench, because he just needed a second. ezra needed just one. ( because…. why! ) “ yeah, i’m good.“ there’s no anger here, but detected is detachment. “ is it just this? “ he nods to what he holds; some sandwich and a drink, scanned and bagged.

birdy blinks. then, she blinks again. his response does little to detract from the awkwardness, instead seeing it swell to twice its size. any minute, now. birdy thinks. that great big hole should be opening up. her gaze drops to the poor excuse she’s picked out for an evening meal, ravenous hunger having dissipated to nothing at all. for a girl so clumsy with emotion of her own, she’s quick to read a room. and this room? it begs to be one less full. alright, he wants her to go. that’s fine. that’s fine, right? birdy would have plenty of time to retrace her dogged steps through this cringing conversation later on, over a lukewarm sandwich and a too sweet drink. she has that to look forward to, at least (heavy sarcasm). it takes her a moment longer than it should to pull the cash from her back pocket --- tips, from a hard day’s night. “ that’s it. ” she echoes, in reference to both the food and the conversation. that’s indeed it. there’s a feeling in birdy’s chest that begs to find air and breath, but isn’t there always? her eyes keep closely to his hands, as he rings her up. “ so, i guess i’ll ... see you around? ” looking up again, now. birdy makes a play at enthusiasm, but fails (rather miserably) to stick the landing.

#*𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒆.#ezrawalsh

*𝒆𝒛𝒓𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒔𝒉.

here could be anywhere. on the cushy surface it says golden. but brown eyes look at him too fuckin’ long. what she means is out of prison. and that means she knows. of course she does. ezra lacks that clumsy, chesty hope once held, so he knew she would have heard. golden is good at that. knowing your worst fucking decision ( and that’s what it was, a choice ), tossing it around in hush-tone ‘til he’s close enough. then the cut off. and the blinks. a pause so pregnant, it lasts till he passes. and cycle repeats. birdy cuts herself off like ‘em, yeah. but she meets his eye. it’s ezra to back down. gaze held for all of a second, then her hands are of greater importance. one has weighted focus and the other resists an urge to cringe beneath it. “ yeah, it’s been bout a week now or somethin’, “ that is something he’s gonna have to care about again: what day it is, how many weeks we’re all blinking away. “ and you… never left? …like you said you wouldn’t. “ at least one of ‘em can stick to their word.

a week. that sits badly with her. for all the talking people liked to do in this town, you’d think someone would’ve bothered to mention him. to birdy, of all people! they had certainly had plenty to say to her when he had first gotten arrested. but no, and instead: she’s forced to face him here, unprepared, at 3am in a 7-eleven. “ right! gotcha’. ” the terseness in her tone is unmistakable, although it’s not directed at him -- more the... situation. the embarrassment shared between them both could’ve opened up a hole in the linoleum and swallowed them. “ i... i mean i’ve -- been around, i guess? ” never left makes it sound like birdy had been shackled and forced to sit in one spot. that’s him. “ but... yeah. it’s home, right? ” that’s her. it isn’t the warmest reunion. but what’s she supposed to do, huh? press her hand up against the plastic divider between them, like some kind of shitty prime time cop show? there had been plenty of time for birdy to have done that when he was in prison. which she didn’t. it would have been... weird for her to visit, right? too much time had passed. they were strangers, really. only ezra didn’t feel like a stranger, right now. “ you look good, ezra. ” birdy will lie to him, for old time’s sake. it’s only polite. “ are you... good? ” the worry that lives in her throat is almost fifteen years old.

#*𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒆.#ezrawalsh

*𝒆𝒛𝒓𝒂𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒔𝒉.

he’s not as bad as he looks. no, really. these bags? it’s 3am. the ex-cons get the graveyard shift and hell, ezra’s not complain’, he’s just not used to it; day two and all. so he’s cleaning toilets. he’s stocking shelves. he’s finding work where there is none, sweeping twice-swept floor. he’s making a living. that’s what this is. living. in a shirt that doesn’t fit him ( they’ll get his size, they say. not used to thirty year old, 6″4 men, i s’pose ). of course, he sees her as soon as the bell above door sounds. attention is demanded, and it never quite fades as an old friend—- that’s right, someone he knew—-creates makeshift basket, hugging goods to her chest so none fall. there’s too much happening in the tight of his own chest for him to notice the way she stands taller, now. taller than before, the cheekbones sharper. gaze, too. until she sees him. he’s been looking, but twigs hasn’t. in theory, then, ezra should have something to say. fucking—- anything, dude. fingers speak before he does. pushing into the back of his neck, that nervous instinct carried from childhood to lanky teens to prison to 7-eleven. “ hey, uh, twigs. “ he’s willing it to sound normal. it’s meek, which is not like ezra. which is not like ezra at all. “ how y’been? “

birdy hears it: both the old nickname, and his question. neither of which end up landing, to any particular effect. she has questions of her own. “ i… i didn’t— i didn’t know you were…” out, she wants to say. out where he had been in, for what? five years? that’s always the number she used to hear on her customer’s lips, way back when the news broke. and it was news, in golden: more quickly and enthusiastically circulated than the regular kind that came on the tv at 5 o’clock. birdy didn’t google it, like perhaps she should have. she couldn’t bear seeing it all... written out in black and white. “ —here. ” she finishes, finally. that’s close enough. “ when did you, uh… get back into town? ” birdy looks at him properly, now. it’s forced at first, but once she starts she can’t stop. older, (even) taller, and certainly broader. he would have looked good... if he didn’t look like shit. and he does look like shit, make no mistake. he can’t have just been… walking around! there’s no way. birdy would have known, she would have heard, and she most definitely would have seen. ezra was tough to lose in a crowd (and golden was hardly a crowd). “ recently... i guess. ”

#*𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒆.#ezrawalsh

@ezrawalsh

always eat before the cooks go home. c’mon! like she hasn’t been running that place long enough to have it figured out. but birdy (as she so often does) gets herself all swept up in the jobs that must be done. and who could blame her? the list never ends. but before she knows it: it’s coming up on 3am and she’s locking the doors to go home. starving! well, fuck. it’s a rare and brilliant day that you’ll find birdy in the kitchen, and it certainly won’t be at this time of night. so rather, and without giving it much second thought, she swings her old pick-up trunk into the connivence store parking lot. no big deal... right? birdy doesn’t bother locking her car door (by all means, let someone else try and get that piece of shit running), enveloped by the unsightly fluorescents before she even gets in the place. birdy doesn’t bother with pleasantries, instead b-lining towards any semblance of hot food. it’s a cold night. she decides upon some sort of sad looking sandwich, snagging a cold drink from the fridge before making her way up to the till. and still, birdy doesn’t look up (blame it on the hanger); not until after she dumps the items on the counter between them. “ and a packet of----- ezra?! ” big red, she means to say. but ezra comes out first.