Coyote Ugly Communion
Who: Fancy, OPEN What: Random (or not so much?) meeting Where: Streets of Paris When: April 4 1941, late morning Complete/Incomplete: Incomplete
Fancy rushed through the city streets. She was late. Late of her own accord and her own fault. Well, not completely. If she could have woken up the SS Officer on top of her she might have gotten out sooner. Only German soldiers had no stomach for good French Wine. Especially ones so young. It was sad really. He was practically just a boy. Just at that age when boys are really starting to become men and learn the real ways of the world. He was actually kind of sweet, wide eyed and nervous, his arm trembling slightly under her hand as they went to dinner and the opera. He could have been anything. A doctor, a farmer, but he was a Nazi. He could even be the one that had taken her.
She stared down at her reflection in a puddle. She looked little worse for ware, she cleaned up nicely and knew what carry with her so that she could come out of wherever looking presentable. Still, somehow, she still saw a difference. She thought she might cry and turned her eyes quickly away instead. She stared out at the people crossing the streets, wondered where they were going, wondered if they cared.
And her? Where was Fancy LaMorne going? Lots of places. Like the bakery for bread, the butcher's for meat, she was even planning on going to church this morning. She wasn't entirelysure what she was going to do once she got there however, light a candle? Confess? Ask them if they'd mind burning her at the stake and ending her misery? Who knew?
She picked up her pace, her heels making loud clicking sounds as if they were protesting the rush. There was really no reason to rush, except, in her head. She used to hate mornings. The glaring sun, the loud hustling outside her window. She still did, only now she hated the nights more. Nights were lonely, empty with the reality that it wouldn't get better. There was no better from here. Still. There were a few things left to do. Balance the books, see about finding some real cigarettes, meeting her contact. She got a note a few days ago. Her contact at the fish market was dead. She didn't want to think about how or why. All she did was memorize the hows of how she would know the new one when they found her and burned the paper.
She looked both ways before she crossed the street but ran into trouble, or rather someone, going around the corner. She made a sound of surprise and blinked her eyes, hands reaching up to adjust her hat.
"Je suis désolé." she apologized "C'est mon défaut."