|
|
Post by VIVIAN LEVIA DANIELS on Dec 25, 2010 22:05:58 GMT -5
Another party. This socializing experiment was truly exhausting. This time, instead of her usual ensemble of long, floor sweeping skirts and turtle necks, she decided she would try a little bit of a change. In all technicality, she was totally covered up. She wore a metallic loose fitted tank top that made her breasts look great but was hidden under a beat up leather jacket. Tiny velvet shorts covered her lower regions but instead of exposed, smooth golden legs, they were covered with lace tights. Maybe she should have worn different shoes but she couldn't switch up her boots for heels. She simply couldn't. She'd have to go buy heels first of all because she didn't own any.
She took some old black, thick ribbon and tied it in her shoulder length hair, a floppy bow hanging off to the right. Over all, with her onyx nail polish, Victorian era accessories, and the way the ribbon made her hair, which was in a messy yet chic up do, she looked...odder than she normally did. Maybe it was, again, the all black she was wearing but after spending an hour at the party in Chelsea, she ended up leaving, lighting up a cancer stick as she walked down the block. Her shoes were muted as she continued on in moonlight, her slender arms crossed tightly over her chest because she was freezing. It was way too cold for this type of attire. It was preposterous to think this outfit was good for anything in this experiment. It was an unnecessary variable. Taking a drag, she blew the smoke out, her bright blue eyes standing out against the thick mascara but her lips pale. Mascara was the only makeup on her face, usually. She wasn't too big on the makeup front unless she knew the ingredients to it which was why she made her own mascara using the supplies in Columbia's chemistry labs. It beat spending $7.99 on a simple bottle from Maybelline.
As she walked, a million thoughts running to her mind, from school work to Shane and his disappearing act. It was expected. What else should she have done? She knew it was highly improbable for them to find each other so she made sure not to get her hopes up. Plus, the second he found out about her age it would all be down the drain...Unless she was over the age of eighteen by then. No. No. They wouldn't see each other again. She had to focus on school and hell, even her sister, Ruby, who disappeared as well. She'd called her in hopes of hearing how that date of her to that club went but it just kept going to voice mail and her texts remained unanswered. So that was a big fat no to her face. Taking another deep drag, she ended up by a convenience store, leaning against the wall as she waited for the late bus to pass so she could get back to campus and call this one a failure. T was still over at the party with Z so she was sure they would have a fun time.
While blowing the smoke out, she heard a string of swears and she helplessly looked over, curiosity getting the best of her as she saw the man coming out of the store only a few feet from her. Whatever was his reason for cursing had to be logical. No one ever cursed for no reason. Not like that at least.
tagged to hector |
|
|
|
Post by hector NICODEMUS KOZMA on Dec 25, 2010 22:37:45 GMT -5
Another monday spent aimlessly wandering back and forth between the grocery store and his apartment. Another tuesday working with a fervor that scared him. Another wednesday, taken off, staring at his television as brainless actors went through the motions of every day life, feeling nothing, relating poorly the emotional ties to stress and relaxation that came and went with having money to spend. Slowly, he'd grown accustomed to living without someone to take care of besides himself. Inch by inch, he was making a wide foray into the business world, spending dollar after dollar on his needs and ignoring his sister with every passing minute, because the more he considered her, the more he considered her problems. Before, he didn't believe it, and now the evidence was mounting to levels he couldn't pass off as something else; she was a reincarnation of their mother, her twin, her desperate similar spouse with a ring but no fiancee. He'd agreed to her solitary terms and conditions and resigned himself to a life without his child, without his sister. And now, he was in dire need of a chocolate bar, or something to bring his blood sugar up and control his mood swings. Inevitable and predictable, between lunch and dinner every single night, a period of time struck where he would grow weary, exhausted; he needed a burst of energy, and always was reimbursed with the delicious sweetness of a chocolate bar. Tonight, he would walk to the corner store and retrieve one. Of course, that had been the plan.
Like always, things failed to fall into line.
On the way to the store nearest him, someone stepped on his shoe. It scuffed. Ordinarily, the problem was obsolete – he'd just wipe it off at the next stopping point and return about his day. But, presumably, considering the sizable indent left on the toe of his loafer, this woman was walking around on nails and decided to leave her mark, so to speak, permanently between his middle and big toes; he mourned the sweet, comfortable crocodile leather like a lost child, his fingers brushing over the smooth surface and yearning for times when there wasn't a smell crevice present in his immediate vision. Slowly, he'd straightened, and upon entering the store, was told shoe polish wasn't available for the next couple of blocks. This, he decided, was an acceptable answer – after all, he was in Times Square, and it was highly unlikely that something of the sort would be found where a mug printed with tacky I heart NY logos would be a better seller. He hustled out, leaving the cashier to open their lane once again and resume business as usual. He forgot to purchase his sweetener at the first Duane Reade. And the second. And by the time he'd stumbled into the capacious layout of the third, he was exhausted, both mentally and physically. Over half the city had been prowled, combing the corners and alleys for something that might someday resemble shoe polish and failing, as he usually did, in the hunt through the commercial market. No such luck. So he'd gotten the candy bar, given up, and exited the store, cursing like a sailor in disdain and annoyance for the useless chain of stores that merely took up space and offered no actual value, when he felt a pair of eyes upon his flesh, so delicate; he assumed whoever it was had heard him, and the only question present in his clearly thoughtful mind was this: if it annoyed them, why the fuck were they listening?
So, he tore off a decently sized chunk of Almond Joy and shoved it into his mouth, turning his gaze to her only when he was certain she'd been staring, and offered a semi-frustrated, familiarly cynical “What?”
|
|
|
|
Post by VIVIAN LEVIA DANIELS on Dec 25, 2010 23:02:01 GMT -5
Hearing him respond to her stare, she felt her cheeks burn a light crimson because normally, she only stared when she was observing the world around her and most times, people didn't notice her. Once again-she was wallpaper but for some reason, he noticed her which was enough to make her feel uncomfortable. Not knowing how to verbally response, she held out her packet of cigarettes for him to take one, "Cigarette?" Usually, she didn't care much about her distinguishable southern accent but this time, it sounded like nails on a chalkboard to her. This would be her next experiment: striking up a conversation with a stranger. She was normally too anti social to do so but his swearing had somehow poked an interest in her. Maybe it was because people that were so radically different from her (which was almost everyone on the planet) always attracted her like a moth to a light bulb...Only the attraction was always purely superficial and in the name of scientific and sociological research.
"Nicotine helps relieve stress despite being one of the top leading 'killer' habits of the world," she needed to shut up. She was rambling a lot about nothing. That was her problem, She was classified as a genius in everything academic but she also knew a whole lot about nothing at all, "Olive branch, really," she corrected herself. Obviously she didn't want him annoyed with her so she slowly shut her mouth so as to not further bring him annoyance. So far, this experiment was a total fail. Plus, he was way older than her. Now that she could slightly see him better with the dull light of the streetlamp, she could see a tiny bit of gray hairs. What if he turned out to be a rapist? According to the New York Times, there was a one in four chances she would get raped for walking late at night without at least one other person, regardless of the gender, with her. Because she was lone so late at night...Would she become that one in four? There was also the other statistic where one in every three murders happen at night and by strangers.
She should have considered all of this before suddenly offering this guy a cigarette olive branch as an apology for starring at him only a few moments ago. Geeze could she be so fucktarded? So much for being a genius. Looking him up and down, however, her eyes seemed to only catch the marking on his expensive looking shoes. Having dealt with such things on her boots (which looked like she just bought them because she took ridiculous care of all her shoes), she squatted down and popped the indent back up before rubbing her thumb over it to make sure the scuff would go away. Then she stood back up again while taking a drag, looking down at the no-longer-there scruff, and a satisfied look coming upon her minus the smirk that would normally accompany it. It wasn't until she realized she fixed a stranger's shoe that she looked up to see his reaction and was a bit hesitant about it. She was by no means a social butterfly especially around men her age or older. She was a nerd, at best, and had issues with verbally expressing herself correctly, "Sorry. It was just the scruff and heel indent...It should not be there. It makes your shoe look unkept and uneven with the other," she was looking down at his shoes again before she looked him straight in the eyes, unsure of his reaction.
Would he swear at her then walk away? Because if so...she would feel so ridiculous...that she'd have to go and tell Ruby, whenever she came back from wherever, about how much of a fail her socializing experiments have been going because of her certainly illogical behavior in the name of science.
tagged to hector |
|
|
|
Post by hector NICODEMUS KOZMA on Dec 26, 2010 10:59:50 GMT -5
Any strange impressions of her he might have garnered in the first moments of their interaction – someone who stared so blankly, so consistently was clearly retarded – were only strengthened as he watched her offer him a cigarette, pulling his own from the confines of his expensive pants pocket. Slowly, he lit it, eyes glued to her, not responding out of respect for her; anything that tumbled from his whiskered cheeks would only be profane, worse already than it had been in the moments before addressing her. He felt bad, really, seeing her cold and desperate for interaction, so much so that she would openly acknowledge a stranger in the street. Idly, he wondered if she frequently dressed like a hooker, or if perhaps that was her profession. He decided, as men without filters typically do, to inquire regarding her employment. “Are you a whore?” it was clear by inflection that he wasn't going to ask her to fuck him; no, he needn't pay for something so simple to achieve of his own accord. Taking another bite of his chocolate bar, he put the cigarette out under his dented, destroyed shoe. “Or perhaps you have some other acceptable reason for dressing like one.” sociability wasn't his forte, it was clear in the way he moved closer, initiating conversation. Vaguely awkward, slightly uncomfortable; he passed it off as irritation towards human kind, but his fascination was largely innocent during this particular venture. A hand shuffled through his hair. Prematurely gray. He blamed Lena, and the stress she put on him by simply existing, and occasionally, his mind reached his mother and he'd clasp the sides of his skull like they were falling apart, because thinking about her always had that unfortunate effect on the man.
Something in him clicked, slowly but surely, as she bent to fix his shoe, and he held it out for her to have better access to, “I'm sorry, that was out of line.” rarely did he apologize for his behavior, because he liked to be categorized with the emotionless and frequently found himself enjoying the expressions of anger and anxiety that came from spending time with him. Too lonesome, he found himself craving attention from people who could keep up with his spite, and when he came across someone as painfully slow – socially at least, she didn't seem illiterate by the few sentences he'd heard her speak – as she was, he found himself eternally indebted to them. Because of his mother. Because of his mother's friends. So, when she apologized, he shrugged, took another bite of the candy, “It's fine. I was going to fix them myself, but they were out of shoe polish.” he had a hard time with the casual nature in which he was conversing, but he forced himself into it anyway. It wasn't fair to someone who'd just stooped to their feet and fully enabled him, to take advantage; he brushed aside the crude comments that originated in his head and traveled, always, to his mouth before he could stop them, pushing his fingers through his hair once more. “Do you want my jacket? You look cold,”
|
|
|
|
Post by VIVIAN LEVIA DANIELS on Dec 27, 2010 19:18:10 GMT -5
When he asked if she was a prostitute, her neat eyebrows arched in major surprise and looked down at herself. She didn't think she looked like a hooker though if her father saw her, he would probably say she did too. Showing less was always more in his eyes and if it was anyone who seemed to take that to heart, it was Vivian with her floor sweeping skirts, turtle necks, and boots. That was her usual attire. She usually didn't show anything...made her seem like a nun sometimes, "No. I have been trying social experiments because I am socially retarded," she said it, surprisingly, with ease as if she told anyone who ever asked her about it. Why change now? Because she sort of wanted the attention from the opposite sex, as much as she didn't want to admit it. She didn't want to be the perpetual virgin and they used to call her in boarding school in England. She wanted to have a boyfriend, preferably one who could hold up a somewhat intelligible conversation.
So far the only candidate was Shane and she was sure he wouldn't want her that way. She was just that chick, in her opinion anyway. Maybe she was just self conscious...wasn't like her self esteem was all that great to begin with, "Thank you, but I am okay," she shrugged a bit, taking a drag from her cigarette and blowing the smoke out before reaching her hand out to his, "I'm Vivian, by the way," people couldn't do much with a first name. It wasn't like she was giving him her social security number so she thought it was safe to give him at least her name...Even if he didn't care much for it. He didn't seem entirely like he took much of a liking to her-not even superficially. She shouldn't have been starring but she couldn't help it. She wasn't much for cursing so she just wasn't used to hearing so much of it so quickly or said person walking up to her in such a way...or calling her a hooker which she probably deserved since her shorts really were pretty short. She was just trying too hard, most likely. She had to buy these shorts too-found it at a thrift store off Canal Street.
"So what do you do for a living? Since we have established I am not a prostitute," she took another drag to keep her calm and from saying random useless facts only people with no lives would know about like statistics on rape, murder, and crime in every single surrounding borough just in case she ever found herself lost in one of them in the middle of the night. That was Vivian for you.
tagged to hector
sorry it's so short. super tired lol |
|
