@tirelessheart
“i’ve been-- busy.”
busy’s a vague word for exactly what she’s been. busy. she’s been working on finding what she’s supposed to do-- it’s strange, to feel like she’s trying to trust the universe, herself, and the person standing behind her. this is a black and white apology cake, purchased from levain bakery, and the apology cake is because she’s been so hard to get a hold of for a little while now. but there was thanksgiving, and there’s been learning the ropes, getting a hold on her ever-changing self. she’s standing here in the doorway of karen’s apartment, senses assailed by the scent of cat hair, frank’s dogs having been here, the mingling promise of both things. she imagines them, a happy bunch of pets, like a pile of furry creatures all stacked on top of each other one on top of the other. a literal dogpile, cats in addition.
it feels like a warm thing to see, to think about. it tickles a little bit, pleasant and thoughtful. she’s still struggling to find the balance, the place between heroism and self, the place between home and solitude. it’s like she’s sitting in a fault line. it’s like she’s there, face upturned, and she’s still trying to figure out how to climb out of it. she’s doing a good job getting some footholds. daphne helps-- her penthouse feels like home, where trish’s penthouse-- never did. never does. never will.
“i’m sorry.”
she wonders if homes are people and not places. she thinks that has merit.
“may i come in?” it’s hopeful, a peace offering of a sound. i’m sorry. i know, i can be complicated to pin down, but i missed you. forgive me? for being me. there’s an imploring raise of those dark eyebrows, hair cropped short, a blast of vivid wheat gold a little boy-bandish and soft around her ears. she wants to tuck it over, under, but her hands are full, “um-- please?”
