Remy Pahlmer (phm) wrote in lab_rinth, @ 2015-05-16 00:31:00 |
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Entry tags: | !week nine, max caine, remy pahlmer |
Who: Remy and Max
When: Week Nine; Wedneday, January 28th, Late evening
Where: Outside the RD
Summary: Everyone is the worst. Thank goodness Remy is there to remind them of this.
Warning: Language?
Beneath her feet was broken glass. With her eyes closed, Remy could hear it better, feel it rolling beneath the instep of her boot, smooth and crunchy and promising a disastrous fall if stepped on just the right way. She could picture it now-- the shards in the soft spots of her palm, the rip in her tights, the snap of heads and concerned glances. But her reflexes were better than that, and as she moved her foot across the broken bottle, the brunette kicked it aside, leaned against the wall of the bar sucking down cool air as though it was a last cigarette.
The taste of her last drink, a coffee stout that was not nearly bitter enough for her liking, was still on her tongue, heavy with caramel notes, with the cloying smoothness that came with a darker brew. Limbs heavier, more fluid than when she was sober, Remy stuffed her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket, wrapped a fist around her keys reflexively. It had been years since she'd had to keep her eyes wide, ready to gouge a stranger that got too close, but old habits died hard and leaving New York didn't mean a part of it didn't sit in the marrow of her bones, as taunting as a long forgotten lover.
In the background there was music, the thrumming of a bass-line she knew too well but didn't care enough for to listen to the caterwauling interpretation. Even outside, it reverberated through her like static down her spine, a metallic, electric sound she could feel in her fingertips, more sensitive to sounds when she was drunk. The night before, the air had smelled of fire, smoke lingering in the naked arms of the trees. This night, the one filled with karaoke and lonesome beers chased with quiet whiskey shots, smelled of desperation, of failed attempts at redemption.
Remy had gotten too good at being alone. She was forgetting what it was like to be part of a crowd, to flow with the tides that pulled at her; always too far out to shore. Always the lighthouse, never the sea.
A brush against her shoulder sent eyes snapping open, fist on keys tightening, the reactions of a startled cat, claws drawn before a target was secured. But it was nothing, just a passing though the doorway she stood too close to, just someone with footing less stable than her own. Remy exhaled, lowered the tensions of her shoulders, straightened the hem of her skirt , moved a bit further away from the door.
And then they hit again.
What patience she had wound itself into a ball, poised to strike, going in for the kill. Maybe it was the song. Maybe it was the beer that was almost there but not quite right. Maybe it was Remy's mood-- pleasant but not nearly good enough. Later, she would not be able to find the answer. A hand shot out, reached for the wrist of the clumsy drunk, twisted until he let out a yelp of pain. Had he not been sloshed, he would have probably hit her. But Remy knew her audience, she knew better than to touch what would burn her.
"Kindly move a few feet over," she demanded, eyes narrowed, feral. "And, please, do stop being a raging fuckwit." It wasn't asking for much, not when she had a world of demands behind that blithe smile. Uncoiling her fingers, Remy turned away, as though she hadn't just considered murder, took a few steps forward and sank down to have a seat on the curb. The offensive song would come to and end soon. She had time for a cigarette.
Pulling the pack from her pocket, she fished around for the lighter, popping a smoke in her mouth a clicking down on the BIC coming up with nothing but useless sparks.