rebirtth:
timestamp : the tour around the vatican museum @eversincc
she stands with little intent as she watches the initiates spare momentary glances towards her; as they flutter around her like nervous birds. oh, if only she could’ve skipped the entire day — she would’ve rather have been in the south of france with a glance of wine and a record spun against the needle ( a first pressing of one of elvis’ records, soothing for the weather and her temperament that seemed to battle with her sense of sanity in the prolonged april sunny days ).
“abigail?” she calls, her voice low and clear as she sways from one foot to the other, sharing her weight out upon heels that dig into her feet ( but she had been raised on such instruments, so it was strange not to feel the pain of a day’s embrace ).
“abigail, let us go get some fresh air. there must be… a balcony of some kind,” marianne muttered, bringing her purse forth as she fondled its contents for her organic cigarettes.
though her relationship with the scottish politician was private, marianne was falling into old traps of comfort — reaching for her hand, kissing her cheek.. it would only be a matter of time for the unveiling to the public ( ah, the police wouldn’t be too happy about it. ).
“abigail.”
Why did it seem she was the only one enjoying herself today? She, who had spent most of the day before swapping bitter thoughts on the expense, the extravagance, the pompous, pressing heat of it all. Was it the nature of those accustomed to wealth to be so constantly bored of it?
Privacy felt like something of a cage. Like shackles at her wrists, holding back her hands from welcoming touch, leaving only her eyes to spin affections back to her lover.
“Marianne,” she began gently, lips curled in fond amusement. “You sound like a broken record.”
Turning her head from her admirations, she begrudgingly detached her attention from the tour ahead of them, latching on to her partner. Was she reading too much into it, or was there anxiety in her voice? A gentle frown crossed her features, one hand raising against its shackles to touch her elbow, guiding her onwards.
There was a balcony, stretched beyond two french windows that opened with a push. Though it was not locked, though they had the most exclusive of access, the space felt strangely liminal. Distinctly like somewhere they ought not to be. All the same, the view it awarded was spectacular, spanning the rooftops of the grand museum stretching out to the Basilica and the square beyond.
With a little privacy, Abigail allowed herself to drift closer, hand scouring up the other woman’s arm. “You going to tell me what you’re fussing over, or are you just that desperate for a smoke?” she asked with a quiet chuckle.
