Laura (homeandhearth) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-05-20 11:03:00 |
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Entry tags: | marian |
Who: Laura
What: Alter change narrative (finally!)
Where: The random, bland apartment that she's been given for her safety
When: A bit of a while ago because I am behind on my docs. Before Max let Laura know it was safe to return home.
Warnings/Rating: None
Her pay from the flowershop, small as it was and made even less by the fact that it was only a part time position, wasn’t enough to pay for her own, single rent. It was why she’d been more than happy to split the cost of rent with Max, to have a decent place to life though she wouldn’t normally be able to afford it. She knew she could’ve called up a certain wealthy friend and asked for the favor of enough to get her set with rent, her own place to live, money to survive on. If he was feeling especially generous, he might even try to set her up with her own shop again. But she wasn’t the type of person to do that, and the thought of it made her uncomfortable. She’d rather live where she could afford than to go begging for charity. So she kept that phonecall to herself and made do with what life threw at her.
Even when what was thrown at her was a too-white apartment that had no character to it. She’d complained about it to Gabe often enough, and his answer was always the same: get some paint and get some plants. And since she wasn’t paying the rent on the place (though she had no idea who was, and she would kick Max’s ass if it ended up being her), she had enough of a cushion that she could afford a few gallons of paint and a hearty little houseplant. The plant had taken up residence in the living room (and she was contemplating another for her bedroom), and the paint had been purchased and applied: an accent wall of warm butter in the living area, a greyish sage in the bathroom that turned the white tile and fixtures into something more calming than institutional, and a cloudy grey for her bedroom that was just neutral enough to cool the Vegas heat. They were standard colors, nothing ground-breaking, but they made it feel warmer and homier. Something she could actually handle living in.
And in the time between work and painting, she rearranged the place as best she could. When she was done, there was a sweet sense of satisfaction at the changes. Even if she had to move again in two days, the effort had been worth it. She was proud of what she’d done, and she used the still-generic kitchen to make herself a dinner worthy of a tiny celebration. Dinner at the table, a glass of wine, color on the walls. Each thing wasn’t something she would have given thought too until recently, convinced that the more mundane aspects of her life weren’t as important. But those same mundane things, now that they were complete, made her feel better. They gave her a sense of accomplishment, somewhere around her heart and in the back of her mind. It was a satisfaction that blotted out the remaining thoughts of computers and gadgets, replacing them with thoughts of home and growing things. As she ate her solitary dinner, she was content with the change.