WHO: Antigone and Joan WHEN: Sunday afternoon WHERE: A comfy ice cream parlour WHAT: Not a date hahaha, just some friends eating ice cream WARNINGS: Probably none
Sometimes, on the brightest and most beautiful of afternoons, Antigone found herself thinking about Maxwell, and wondering what he’d be doing with a day like today. If he hadn’t bled out in her arms, she might have invited him out for ice cream, too. She would have liked to see what Joan made of him. She would have liked to hear him talk about his plans for life again. She would have liked some memories of him that weren’t blurred by misery and drink and shock.
Antigone pulled her gaze away from the street, where she was watching all the living people pass by and thinking of those who were not, and back to her laptop, where she had a dozen tabs of a dozen equally miserable things open. She'd sat down at this booth to wait for Joan, surrounded by a collection of easier, more cheerful things to read. The parlour had a little bookshelf of friendly looking paperbacks or there were all the posters of bands or theatre shows on the walls, or above those, the quotes about ice cream and a collection of interesting dessert based facts painted in bright colours.
But there was her choice; she could read a short history of Booza or she could reply to the latest hateful comment on her latest article, with her dozen tabs as allies. It wasn't really a choice, though, when it came to Antigone. Letting things slide was not her forté.