;UNTITLED gingerogue
This is supposed to be a peaceful night off. Carrie’s perched on a plush bar stool, a cold beer in her hand. Frannie is at her sister’s for the weekend so her single mother duties are pleasantly revoked for a couple of days of rest. Supposed to be a peaceful night off. There’s a man at the other end of the bar facing the window. She hasn’t taken her eyes off of him for a good ten minutes. His face is obscured by the dim lighting and his position, but the red hair and broad shoulders burn her from the inside out - his familiar silhouette forcing her to physically ground herself, lest she run towards him and bury her head in his chest and never let him go. But not look at his face. She half wants this man to be someone else; to close the door she’s been trying to pry open for over a year now. But the sentimental part of her just wants him back, secretly hoping there was just a re occurrence of Brody’s capture. He seemed almost invincible. Men like him don’t just die. She’s overthinking, fuck. Bereavement does some serious shit to a person, and she has half a mind to think she’s going nuts. Promptly downing her entire beer with a choked off burp she finds herself leaving her seat, whether she wants to leave or go to the bathroom she’s not sure, but either way she has to walk in his direction, so she chooses to take the safe bet of staring at the ground, her fantastical thinking clinging to the moment she might hear his voice call her over.