Isra Akilah Nuri nee Sultana (explosived) wrote in incheck, @ 2010-08-17 13:26:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log, isra nuri |
once in a while you got to burn your lips
who: Isra Nuri and OPEN
when: Tuesday, late morning
where: The kitchen area
what: A tired, slightly hungover Isra is making coffee. Intense stuff.
Isra yawned. Every now and then she stretched, the motion distinctly catlike, but mostly she leaned in against the counter, eyes fluttering shut as she fought to stay awake, at least until her coffee finished brewing. Usually she did it with an old school percolator, a fact which in her babysitter days had often filled her little section of the office with the scent of roasted beans flown all the way from her cousin’s plantation. She had good instinct and steady hands for it, always managing to save the coffee from becoming too bitter. Today, though, she was using her small, travel-worthy French press and was waiting for the grounds to steep.
Perhaps foolishly, Isra did not much care over the events of the weekend. Long disinterested in other people’s lives save for when they brushed flush against her own, a lack of privacy meant nothing to her. Neither did a security breach. Isra herself was too secure, emotionally, a gift or a curse from being the daughter of her father. Who could touch her? A death like hers was on par with some grand political assassination, not company subterfuge. If she was needed to combat something, well, Isra would rise to the occasion, but no one had asked her to do anything and thus she had spent her weekend in idle laziness, racking up her long distance phone bill talking to her sisters-in-law.
Still, she had stayed up rather late on Monday night, through entire fault of her own. Some club – she didn’t even remember its name now, just remembered the line she had walked past before going straight in. And then, of course, the gin slings, which required a partner in order to drink. That had been fun.
Bored, she took all the pins out of her hair and slowly, lazily wound her ponytail back up, re-pinning it into a messy chignon on her head. Today, she felt, was going to be a damn slow day.