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Sep. 30th, 2021 11:30 pmIt isn't terribly often now that Therese finds herself all caught up in the past. Back in her apartment, there's a photo album carefully tucked into a drawer containing some of the old pictures of hers that she found in her mail once, but she doesn't generally look at them. It's enough to know that they're there. Christmas and New Year's tend to be hard times of year, but then, they already tended to be anyway. Having been left by what little family she had left when she was a child, of course holidays largely about family would be difficult. It's been nearly five years, anyway — a staggering number when she stops to think about it, but time enough that brief trysts should no longer carry such weight for her.
Maybe it's something in the air, then, something to do with the changing seasons that has her wake up feeling slightly melancholy. Maybe it's just loneliness, so many of her friends gone now. She's more open here than she thought she would ever be able to be, and yet there's a whole chapter of her life — short but pivotal — that she never speaks about, kept close to her chest like a secret. It's an odd sort of nostalgia, really, not for something that was but for something that might have been, a feeling lovely and crisp and sad.
She considers focusing on work, the way she did back in New York, but that matter requires a different sort of thoughtfulness right now, her head spinning with things she isn't quite ready to consider. Besides, it's her day off, and she may as well enjoy it. Afternoon finds her at a bar near her building, a nice sort of place, similar to where she would have gone back home. Sitting at the bar, she orders herself a dry martini with an olive, subtly lifting her glass as if in a toast when the bartender turns away, fingers itching for a cigarette. After this, she thinks, she'll go outside for a few minutes to light one.
Maybe it's something in the air, then, something to do with the changing seasons that has her wake up feeling slightly melancholy. Maybe it's just loneliness, so many of her friends gone now. She's more open here than she thought she would ever be able to be, and yet there's a whole chapter of her life — short but pivotal — that she never speaks about, kept close to her chest like a secret. It's an odd sort of nostalgia, really, not for something that was but for something that might have been, a feeling lovely and crisp and sad.
She considers focusing on work, the way she did back in New York, but that matter requires a different sort of thoughtfulness right now, her head spinning with things she isn't quite ready to consider. Besides, it's her day off, and she may as well enjoy it. Afternoon finds her at a bar near her building, a nice sort of place, similar to where she would have gone back home. Sitting at the bar, she orders herself a dry martini with an olive, subtly lifting her glass as if in a toast when the bartender turns away, fingers itching for a cigarette. After this, she thinks, she'll go outside for a few minutes to light one.
(no subject)
Jul. 31st, 2021 11:08 pmIt's odd, if not entirely unexpected, how everything just seems to go back to normal as if nothing ever happened. That often tends to be the way of things around here, Therese has found, Darrow's residents bouncing back from the latest trauma startlingly fast. Usually, though, it isn't nearly everyone having been gone for weeks that they all have to recover from. Those who were gone don't seem to think they ever went anywhere. Those who are left — well, she can't speak for anyone else, and she can't say she liked all that quiet, but she's still thrown by the sudden shift, the return back to normalcy.
Mostly, and more unexpectedly, she's found herself with a barely noticeable discontent. It's strange in its own right, really, when usually she's fine just to carry on as things are, not looking for much or attempting any big changes. And she's lucky, she knows, to have a job doing what she loves. Lately, though, going back to taking pictures for the paper, she keeps thinking about the weeks she wasn't doing that, her photography on her own time and her own terms. She's always felt a bit too daunted to try to do anything of her own, but it was nice, not having that structure.
Something to think about. She wouldn't be able to stop if she tried.
As usual, she's spending her day off out with her camera, taking pictures in the park, newly filled with people again. In that regard, at least, it's nice to have things go back to normal, and nice, too, to have the freedom she did a few weeks ago. Smiling faintly to herself as she lines up a shot, she then suppresses a wince when someone walks into the frame.
"Sorry," she says, as if she's the one in the way, which she very well might be, really. "I was just trying to —"
Mostly, and more unexpectedly, she's found herself with a barely noticeable discontent. It's strange in its own right, really, when usually she's fine just to carry on as things are, not looking for much or attempting any big changes. And she's lucky, she knows, to have a job doing what she loves. Lately, though, going back to taking pictures for the paper, she keeps thinking about the weeks she wasn't doing that, her photography on her own time and her own terms. She's always felt a bit too daunted to try to do anything of her own, but it was nice, not having that structure.
Something to think about. She wouldn't be able to stop if she tried.
As usual, she's spending her day off out with her camera, taking pictures in the park, newly filled with people again. In that regard, at least, it's nice to have things go back to normal, and nice, too, to have the freedom she did a few weeks ago. Smiling faintly to herself as she lines up a shot, she then suppresses a wince when someone walks into the frame.
"Sorry," she says, as if she's the one in the way, which she very well might be, really. "I was just trying to —"
(no subject)
Jan. 31st, 2019 10:51 pmWhen Therese leaves her apartment, she's dressed about as warmly as she can possibly manage, which feels both a little ridiculous and a little necessary. It's been cold these past couple of days, beyond just a normal winter brisk, with temperatures staying well below freezing. Mostly, it's just sort of annoying, but regardless, she would rather be excessively prepared than spend the walk from her apartment to the café where she's agreed to meet Oliver shivering. It wouldn't be enough to keep her inside, either. She's far from social at the best of times, but she does like to keep up with her friends, and embarrassed as she might be to admit it, she doesn't have many of those left. Enough time has passed that she isn't still reeling from losing Chloe and Elias and Arthur in such quick succession, but she's all the more grateful even so to have Oliver around, the person with whom she's closest.
Inside, it's almost blessedly warm, and she lets out a breath of shaky relief as she slips off her scarf and gloves. A good number of other people seem to have had the same idea, but she manages to find them an unoccupied table, gaze on the door so she'll be able to see when he comes in.
Inside, it's almost blessedly warm, and she lets out a breath of shaky relief as she slips off her scarf and gloves. A good number of other people seem to have had the same idea, but she manages to find them an unoccupied table, gaze on the door so she'll be able to see when he comes in.
this is where I leave you
Dec. 31st, 2016 12:04 amThree months and change, and there are times — days, moments — where Therese manages not to think about her at all. Never mind the fact that she could give a precise figure to say just how long it's been, or that it was those photographs, the ones taken mostly of Carol, that got her this job in the first place. At least the job keeps her busy, and maybe it isn't exactly glamorous work, but it's still the Times, a foot in the door, so to speak, the best way for someone like her to get started and maybe, just maybe, have a career doing this one day. She'd said once, before Christmas but what feels like half a lifetime ago, that she would want to if she had any talent for it. She thinks now that she does, and that it isn't just a matter of the subject on the other side of the camera making her photographs look good. Even if that's all she gets out of working here, she thinks it will have been worth it. Nothing's been right since just after New Year's, and yet she feels different in ways that aren't all bad. Maybe it took all of that for her to learn something. Use what's right, throw away the rest — finally, for once, she knows what that means and how to act on it. The life she's been building for herself seems to stand as proof of that.
Today's meeting is one like any other, the photo editors all talking amongst themselves and sharing their work while she stands off to the side taking notes. It's something. It's enough, so much so that she hasn't even noticed the door open before her name is being called, the man standing there with an envelope in his hand that's evidently for her. Crossing the smoke-filled room towards the doorway, curious but impassive, she holds out her hand for it —
Only then, in all of an instant, the man is gone, the envelope, too, her hand meeting only air and her expression quickly shifting into one of concern, barely restrained fear. This is impossible. It should be impossible, unless she's utterly lost her mind, something that seems surprisingly likely when she glances over her shoulder and finds that the office and its inhabitants are gone, too, even if that should have spoken for itself with the sudden lack of noise. There are people, but they're outside, the doorway she's in evidently one of some sort of store, and she's at once not dressed for the weather, her arms wrapping around herself in an attempt to combat a chill in the air far stronger than mid-April should call for.
She should say something. She should turn around, walk a few paces, find a way to determine whether or not this is all just some bizarre hallucination. Maybe she'll wake up at any moment, having fallen unconscious on the floor of the Times's office. Instead, at once, seeing a man with a dog passing by, she steps towards him, summoning up a confidence that she doesn't quite feel. "Excuse me," she says, clear, if slightly apologetic. "I think I might be lost. Would you mind giving me directions?" It's a start, at least. Under the circumstances, that's about all she can hope for.
Today's meeting is one like any other, the photo editors all talking amongst themselves and sharing their work while she stands off to the side taking notes. It's something. It's enough, so much so that she hasn't even noticed the door open before her name is being called, the man standing there with an envelope in his hand that's evidently for her. Crossing the smoke-filled room towards the doorway, curious but impassive, she holds out her hand for it —
Only then, in all of an instant, the man is gone, the envelope, too, her hand meeting only air and her expression quickly shifting into one of concern, barely restrained fear. This is impossible. It should be impossible, unless she's utterly lost her mind, something that seems surprisingly likely when she glances over her shoulder and finds that the office and its inhabitants are gone, too, even if that should have spoken for itself with the sudden lack of noise. There are people, but they're outside, the doorway she's in evidently one of some sort of store, and she's at once not dressed for the weather, her arms wrapping around herself in an attempt to combat a chill in the air far stronger than mid-April should call for.
She should say something. She should turn around, walk a few paces, find a way to determine whether or not this is all just some bizarre hallucination. Maybe she'll wake up at any moment, having fallen unconscious on the floor of the Times's office. Instead, at once, seeing a man with a dog passing by, she steps towards him, summoning up a confidence that she doesn't quite feel. "Excuse me," she says, clear, if slightly apologetic. "I think I might be lost. Would you mind giving me directions?" It's a start, at least. Under the circumstances, that's about all she can hope for.
