JULIAN.
“Your job is your life? You do everything it tells you to?” He puts himself in a separate category. He spends wakeless nights, thinking endlessly, writing until ink runs out, but he does not do it for the job; he does it for the work, the love of it, a feeling that gets no name other than passion as if the former is untranslatable. Doesn’t it look like a room illuminated only in red with his photos dangling in it?
His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth, the immediate reply to her reasoning. It’s not an argument, but it’s barely acceptance. The olive branch of an envelope is looked at, then at her. It looks more like a gauntlet when reflected in her eyes, one that is more enticing than any peace offering. “Let’s see.”
Winthrop’s woods are expansive, nearly endless. The branches stretch out like a spider’s web against a gray backdrop that looks as though it could rain at any notice. The envelope pockets it, an inspection passed. “You’re from here?” he asks while the next frame is slipped off of the clip before turned to her. A design in the dirt, too intentional to be natural. “What is this?”
his question receives nothing but the breath of a laugh, that a part-time job would be the thing dictating how she spent her hours is humor enough. there is no one in the world who would agree to such terms. “close.” being close to the potential work was enough for her in this town, the only option for such an activity. “i get a discount on my film.” and she had a red room of her own, space enough to work on what she wanted to. she had found her own little corner of the world, that was enough for now. “and i’m good at it.” his judgement of her work would be met with confidence, that she had done everything right, no matter the standard this stranger was trying to hold her to.
but her quality is sidestepped for the symbol that’s being pointed to. the mark of blood and ash, sulfur and concrete floored basements. there’s something to that mark that she would have ignored in front of someone new to town, but when asked she finds herself faltering on the spot. “witchcraft.” it isn’t, her tone drags along each ironic syllable. it’s too obvious to ignore, too much for her to want to discuss. and if she’s the one to give up what she knew, it would come back to her tenfold. “are you one of those conspiracy theorists?”
