[Of course Sage has seen him. She had grown so accustomed to the monotonous whirl of the washer and dryers that even the most familiar of foreign sounds -- such as the rustling of laundry -- could tip her off to an added presence.. this presence just so happens to be both her hopes and fears manifested into a soul much too exasperated to be conceived in one sitting -- the Lassiter boy. She maintains a deadpanned, almost unknowing overtone to her visage, albeit she can feel the acrimony in her muffled heartbeat fight for a display section of its own. Yet she is much too high-strung -- no, no.. 'indifferent' to dignify his person with a cordiality, never mind a well-worded remark. So she has pretended she had not seen him, and instead tends to her business in emptying the dirty contents of laundry baskets and replacing its void with a columns of meticulously pressed clothing. Perhaps he has finally begun to see the realistic aspect of things -- that Sage has concluded the chapter in which Connor had once been written in, and is facing away rather than toward the lifestyle that hadn't ostracized him from her own exclusive circle. When he draws himself closer, it is almost instinctive that she gravitates or falls into place beside him, but she does not. Instead, she quivers in spite of the drafty hastes he pursues and continues on as if he were merely inconspicuous to Sage's eyes and Sage's eyes only. Then he speaks -- a rasp of a voice that indicates he has just awoken from a long-awaited slumber in a bed rather than dilapidated cabin miles and miles from this place and time. It is such a harmonious collision, the lulling hum of the laundry utilities and the bittersweet connotation of Connor's voice. So dulcet, in fact, that her lips quirk to a something of a small smile, though she ensures that her back is blockading his vision. She parts her lips to speak, but the words she endeavors to emit tangle with the unspoken truth of their past, and duel temporarily, promising the winner the deserved amount of allotted spotlight. Yet in this moment, witticism evades her, and she is left with an insurmountable pit of words, and cobalt eyes that are now bleary with the recollection of their history.] They aren't finished yet. I'll have a nurse send them up to you when they've completed their cycle. [She elucidates sheepishly, eager to suppress the alterations in her melancholy tone, and ultimately succeeding. She clamps triumphant teeth into her tongue, and reabsorbs the tears that will do her no justice -- sympathy is a poison that is sure to compel her six feet under if she were to accept it so blindly. She turns to address him, red rings now distinguishing cobalt orbs from porcelain skin, and the dusky bags that have taken to embellishing the bottom half of her eye sockets suggest that she is ill, or that her physical condition is pending. Yet the way in which she pillars her downtrodden frame against a persistent sense of pride insinuate that she is merely exhausted, possibly due to the futile household tasks they have her maintaining.]
jacobvanloon
dededos
izzy806
2087
