@theophanie
The evening is soft and forgiving in it’s displaced lighting— the day’s sweltering heat subsiding in a spray of white wash over the dilapidated buildings. It was an inconspicuous place to be— just quaint enough in it’s nature that the poverty of it all failed to appear run down and jaded. It was authentic and honest and Ilse adored the small town for this if nothing else, and truly there was nothing else to be fond of. She had spent most of the day on the outskirts of the colony, counting out her pocket change for a scone and idly waded in the bubbling brook that cut around the forest-line, soaking her toes until the sun had bleached her into a feverish restlessness before she resigned to head back. Isle spent as much time as was reasonable away from home, if she could call it that. Johan was a drag to be around, tall and wide about the shoulders with a mean face and watery blue eyes she suspected must have been considered handsome some time ago.
Not every day was bad, but even in the absence of confrontation, the crowded flat bled with hostility, so thick in the air that one could light a match and set him into another fit. Just this morning, she had dislodged a jar of paint thinner off the shelf and it pooled over the floor like an oil spill. Just as soon, Fehrendorf was knocking over easels, swatting at her with an iron cast pan and Ilse had hurled her laughter into the air in her retreat despite the fact that there was no humor in it in the slightest— her cheeks flushed vermillion in her bewilderment. Nonetheless, there was still a semblance of a community that she belonged to in her own right, and even though the soft prattle of the town left her feeling hollow and isolated for some great extravagant life she imagined she might be living, the men here had been kind to her a time or two before. Just the other week, the lot of them had bailed her out of jail on a minor offense of petty theft. It was not uncommon that she went to bed with them some days— paid for her room and board with her jaw turned into the pillow— forcing her eyes shut and imagined she was somewhere bright and striking— seeing a play in New York or crowding around a smoldering fire on the shoreline of San Luis Obispo.
What fanciful lives she lived through within her own mind. It was nearly dark now, the drab curtains overhanging the windows illuminated by the gentle lighting of the occupants of the hostel. It was not so strange for her to busy herself with the rude habit of pawing through their things when they were out and about, digesting their lives and creating their timelines in her head. Only now, she loitered on the slats of the adjoining roof, legs dangling over the edge and the blood of a peach dripping over her jaw, peaking in through the window of a room that had been vacant just an hour ago, she was certain. The warm spray of wind billowing the curtain out of obstruction and Ilse startled curiously at the array of baggage propped up against the duvet, and perhaps even more so by the half empty bottle adorning the nightstand.
While Ilse drunk plenty, so much so that she once woke up in a snowbank, she didn’t care much for men that were drinkers, having grown to associate them with violence and lewd offense. Still, she supposed it was bright enough out that there was little danger in pressing forward, weaving through clothes lines and stepping over fire escapes until she was pressed up against the window frame, peaking about and faltering only once she’d decipher the dark haired man adjacent near the doorway. Ilse felt no shame in her sleuthing, made no attempt to appear bashful and draw away, instead making a grand gesture toward the liquor with a twist of her lips, testing her words out steadily on her tongue. Ilse had learned to speak some time ago— had very little of any other option all things considered, and she was mostly legible despite a softness around her vowels that made her sound muddy in the absence of her own ears ability to hear herself.
“That looks like a pricey bottle— we don’t see much of that sort of thing around here. If you’ve got money, you better be careful. You’d be skinned for that sort of pocket change, believe me.” she offered simply, halfway into his living quarters now, sat in the window ledge and gazing at him with a cryptic sort of intrigue on her countenance. He didn’t look much like anyone she’d seen around here, with his dark eyes and lean demeanor— certainly not german, she’d guess. Ilse found a great embarrassment in her voice, and at times it still brought a faint coloring to her cheeks though it showed hardly in any other manner. Shame was a useless emotion— one she no longer allowed men to make her feel, looking like a carny of sorts with her messy, cropped hair and adorning little else apart from the oversized canvas of a button up shirt that hung just above her knees, blinking bright and expectantly at him.
