Samuel (voiceinthedark) wrote in low_tide, @ 2009-11-15 18:17:00 |
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Current mood: | confused |
Deep End
Memories - they're translucent and fluid, constantly changing and forever evolving so it's no great shock that when one mind overcomes another and is hit with a sudden influx of them the mind shuts down, reboots and tries to adapt.
It's simply unfortunate that this is the very thing to have happened to Boden Velmont, causing a shift in his momentum resulting in a sudden meeting of the brand new life in which he's sociable, pleasant and overall a really great guy.
The timing could be better, much better.
There's 20 seconds until air and Boden cannot for the life of him put a finger on the right button let alone knows how to make the microphone near his mouth work. He's in a studio of some sort, radio studio by the looks of things. Does that mean... Boden looks up and tilts his head ever so slightly, blinking at the eager thumbs up being given by a large blonde with a huge smile.
He lifts a hand and feels for hair, arching an eyebrow as there is no fringe to hide behind. Mon Dieu. He rests back into the leather chair and wets his lower lip, raking the tips of teeth along the skin until frayed edges were caught and pulled.
It's only when he catches sight of the blonde motioning what appears to be a countdown of sorts that the first real taste of panic sets in. Somehow, God only knows how, when the blonde closes her fist as if to say the countdown is over, Boden opens his mouth and speaks.
"Bonsoir Keywest, this is Boden Velmont and I will be playing all the music that the mainstream industry wouldn't want you to hear and taking your calls for the next 6 hours." It's easy enough to let instinct take over, fingertips knocking against the right switches and hitting the right buttons. "So please call in and make this a night to remember, it's your voice that matters." Boden looks up again and that blonde is grinning like a deranged hyena, obviously he must be doing something right. If only he knew what.
Boden struggles for his next line, but manages to catch himself by muttering something unpleasant in French that over radio sounds exotic. It takes him a moment and then he catches a strand of thought, one that he's sure he's never had and latches on, blunt nails and all. "Let's get this show started with a personal favourite of mine." He hits play then simply sags back into his seat, threading fingers into dark hair that he holds onto as he simply breathes through the disorientation and uncomfortable stare of the blonde.
It's strange being someplace warm, he'd just gotten used to being cold.