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WHO: Landon and OPEN
WHAT: We'll find out, won't we?
WHERE: The kitchen
WHEN: Around 2 PM
Landon was thinking about Tom Waits. Not in any serious or important manner of course -- how serious or important could one's thoughts be when they revolved around a man who had been nearly seventy and smoked nearly forty packs a day? Still, it was what his mind was revolving around. Tom Waits and his poem "What's he Building in there?". The lyrics were running through Landon's head on repeat as he made his way into the kitchen, and the redhead found himself remorsing over the fact that he'd never get a chance to see Tom perform live.
In the Bostonian's hands were a knife and a canteloupe. The fruit was heavy and reassuring. He'd been careful about eating only when he really needed to, and even then it was sparingly. His stomach had been roaring dully for the past few hours. The meagre breakfast he'd shared with Loren that morning had hardly filled him, and only a little while later he felt as though he were starving again, his stomach clenching and growling. He felt a little bad for using the fruit, as though he were doing something wrong, taking away what little they had in fresh vegetation from everyone else, but the canteloupe was close to going bad, he could smell the syrupy-sweet almost too ripeness even through the thick and textured rind.
Setting the fruit on the counter, Landon began to cut into it, first slicing it in half, and then dividing it again. His suspicions of the age of the melon were confirmed as soon as the two sides fell apart. It cut like butter against a hot knife, the insides were soft and vibrant orange, so bright that it looked artificial. As he continued slicing it the smell became cloying, and for some reason Landon thought of his summers in Alabama, before he'd moved to Boston. The smell reminded him of honey-suckle blooming along the buildings of his youth, the pink and white blooms attracting everything from ants to hummingbirds. He smiled a little, thinking of the hot winters and even hotter summers, and finished dicing up the fruit, removing it from the cutting board and putting it on a plate.
WHAT: We'll find out, won't we?
WHERE: The kitchen
WHEN: Around 2 PM
Landon was thinking about Tom Waits. Not in any serious or important manner of course -- how serious or important could one's thoughts be when they revolved around a man who had been nearly seventy and smoked nearly forty packs a day? Still, it was what his mind was revolving around. Tom Waits and his poem "What's he Building in there?". The lyrics were running through Landon's head on repeat as he made his way into the kitchen, and the redhead found himself remorsing over the fact that he'd never get a chance to see Tom perform live.
In the Bostonian's hands were a knife and a canteloupe. The fruit was heavy and reassuring. He'd been careful about eating only when he really needed to, and even then it was sparingly. His stomach had been roaring dully for the past few hours. The meagre breakfast he'd shared with Loren that morning had hardly filled him, and only a little while later he felt as though he were starving again, his stomach clenching and growling. He felt a little bad for using the fruit, as though he were doing something wrong, taking away what little they had in fresh vegetation from everyone else, but the canteloupe was close to going bad, he could smell the syrupy-sweet almost too ripeness even through the thick and textured rind.
Setting the fruit on the counter, Landon began to cut into it, first slicing it in half, and then dividing it again. His suspicions of the age of the melon were confirmed as soon as the two sides fell apart. It cut like butter against a hot knife, the insides were soft and vibrant orange, so bright that it looked artificial. As he continued slicing it the smell became cloying, and for some reason Landon thought of his summers in Alabama, before he'd moved to Boston. The smell reminded him of honey-suckle blooming along the buildings of his youth, the pink and white blooms attracting everything from ants to hummingbirds. He smiled a little, thinking of the hot winters and even hotter summers, and finished dicing up the fruit, removing it from the cutting board and putting it on a plate.