f (foundling) wrote in repose, @ 2018-06-22 20:48:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | *log, fen laufey, lear laufey, nel laufey |
Log, (After)life: Nel L & Lear L
Who: Nel Laufey & Lear Laufey
What: reconnecting
Where: (After)life Photography
When: recent/now
Warnings/Rating: TBD
The woman who walked into (After)life Photography wore a man's wife-beater; it was white against her brown skin, loose against her small frame, and she hadn't bothered with a bra. She wore slacks that hung low on bell-shaped hips. They were overlong, the pants, so they were cuffed above the ankle. Her sandals were just-bought, still-tagged flip-flops from the general store, and they smacked at the ground like someone snapping gum. The woman, who was average height, was pretty, black, and her hair was cropped at the shoulders, loose and straightish and black. She wasn't wearing make-up, because she didn't know how to wear make-up. Her gait was a little odd, a little too long for her shorter legs, but, maybe it was the annoying tag on the flip-flops. She should bend down and take it off, but she didn't. Her gaze swept the space of the photography studio, keen and alert and bright. She looked at the motorcycle by the door, and though she was tempted to walk over and run her fingers over seat and chassis, she didn't. She came further inside the light-flooded space, toward the collection of couches facing each other in a never-ending duel. It seemed empty. Empty of who she was looking for, and she sighed slightly. She knew the place was open—and not only because she'd come in through the front. Maybe Nel, the owner, had gone out for a smoke break, or maybe there was a room off the side. She'd wait, the woman decided. And she perched herself on a teal cushion, sprawling backward in an entitled occupation of space. Speaking of smoke breaks, she could use one. She pulled a carton of cigarettes from her pocket, but, upon retrieving a single cigarette, she didn't light it. Instead, she rolled it between lithe, feminine fingers, seemingly caught in the feeling of paper against skin. Sensory input was a strange thing. Used to one thing, but getting another, the black strands of hair that interrupted peripheral vision kept drawing her attention. She tucked curls behind both ears, and waited. |