delysia’s bedroom on the evening of september 16th, with @lorenzovincelli
if there had ever been a time mayor dubois protested to lorenzo vincelli unchaperoned in his daughter’s bedroom, they’d waved goodbye to it with all the gusto of a lover at a train station during wartime — knowing it would, almost assuredly, never return.
they’ve just seen a picture, which always makes delysia romantic, even if the film wasn’t particularly about love. it was just the way she always felt after — a sensation of tingling fullness which was exacerbated by the sweets she’d consumed in the theatre, and that she’d had her head on enzo’s shoulder the whole ride home.
“have you met any of them yet?” the new yorkers, she means. that much is obvious, even as she sashays barefoot in front of the mirror, humming a tune to accompany this momentary dance with an imagined stranger. with another spin she dissolves onto the bed, clutching a pillow to her chest as she looks back at a friend so dear to her heart he occasionally ripped it — a symptom of being at least partially braided into someone, it should be said.
“i mean — are they handsome? i always pictured they would be, being from new york and all.”
