skylarks

original fiction. premise involves a constantly terrified artist and the guy who tries to get her to do more than pencil drawings. started as a fandom AU, became something i wanted to do for real. i have no idea what i'm doing and probably won't keep up with this consistently, but hey.
also this seemed longer on paper.
word count: 443.

Mid-morning on Wednesday is grey, and it looks damp, too. Anna squints through her blinds for all of twelve seconds before deciding that it's probably going to be drizzly. Two scarves, is her internal announcement; better chance a keeping warm. Watch it be dry, though, and then two scarves would be stifling and she's got enough to carry home as it is. Shouldn't have forgotten to read the newspaper, Anna. Should have snatched the weather inset. She frowns, and snaps the blinds shut.

Black leggings follow a grey and white dress— it nearly meets her knees and she has high hopes for its cleanliness. This was in her last load of laundry, wasn't it? High hopes. Two scarves after all, because she can't decide between the one that's cream-colored and the woolen thing in a very dark purple, and if nothing else, it's better to be safe than sorry. There are little black boots up to her ankles which she wears most everywhere, and those about finish her off; she's gotten dressed next to her refrigerator, and now she brushes her teeth at the kitchen sink. Toothpaste hits her plate from yesterday: she grimaces with foam on her chin and resolves to wash dishes in the evening. A shower, she's sure, can be saved for tomorrow— she can already imagine the feigned contortionism of trying not to knock her arms or shoulders or other shifting bones against cold tile walls slickened further by largely ineffectual steam. It really isn't the most appealing set of sensations right now. Nor is it of particularly high priority, she reassures herself, since she still smells faintly of apple soap. This should do, then. As most mid-mornings go, Anna looks at the microwave clock, scrambles for her keys and things, and reaches the door a hand's count of minutes after she wanted to leave. With her face clean and her arms full, she heads out and then she turns right around. "Goodbye, she calls carefully into her empty little apartment. "I'll come home again." It seems important to promise this to her walls.

This all adheres so strictly to her routine that it's a little remarkable that she'll be noticed by Nathanael Tualle today of all days. Anna makes it to work drenched thanks to about twenty of her predicted drizzles crammed into a downpour; her sand-colored hair sticks to her forehead and her not at all warm scarves stick to her neck. Once she's in the back of the kitchen, she drops a stack of serving trays. That's not at all unusual, but it technically helps to ruin her routine in general. Everything clatters, which begins to change everything.