closed starter for: @leslie-bowman
when/where: leslie’s house, pre-halloween party
“Delysia Iris Bowman,” came the slurred whine, followed by heavy pounding on wood. “Let me in, o’ love of me life.” Verity squinted at the door, as if to confirm that it was still closed.
It was.
She gave a frustrated huff, bracing her forehead against the doorframe for balance. So what if it was only 8pm? Leslie had seen her in worse conditions — specifically, half dead in an alley somewhere in the lower east side, one of her sleeves torn off, and wearing shoes that weren’t hers. She knocked harder. How long had she been waiting? An hour? Three? Verity glanced down at her phone. 2 minutes. “Open, Leslie, you wretched heathen. You trunk of humours, you bolting-hutch of beastliness, you swollen parcel of dropsies, you huge bombard of sack, you stuffed cloak-bag of guts, you roasted Manningtree ox with pudding in his belly, you reverend vice, you grey Iniquity, you father ruffian, you vanity in years!”