👗 Fix/Straighten my muse’s clothes
nonverbal prompts
For one thing, she was holding her champagne flute the wrong way. Not that she ever understood how you hold something wrong, aside from dropping it. But her knuckles were white against the stem of the glass, and somewhere in the back of her mind she noted that she was doing something wrong.
Funny, that. Her parents laid dead in their casket not twenty feet away, but their displeasure still managed to reach her. Reminding her of every little fuck up that could and would occur at this sort of event, with all the ones she’d made in the past as a fun little example. People murmured their condolences and respects to one another. Her plus one stood impatient by her side, but their voice was miles away. Everything had muddled together, except the image of her own hand clenching a glass ‘til the liquid inside shook and her own brain scolding her to let go.
She doesn’t notice John’s broken away from the crowd until there’s a tug on her jacket. The feeling managed to drag her out of her thoughts, enough to notice that he was readjusting her jacket. The lapels were now even, her collar no longer sticking up.
His eyes were tinged with red, and she could imagine they looked mournful to the audience gathered in the hall. She finally loosened her grip, setting down the glass to grab his arm.
“...Can we get some air?”
