watchingdeath (watchingdeath) wrote in oblivion_rp, @ 2010-04-26 23:32:00 |
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Entry tags: | 2009-12-29, brodie, nayan |
Friendly Faces
Who: Nayan and Brodie
Where: one of the outer decks
When: about 9am
What: a first meeting
“You should sue those incompetent motherfuckers, Nayan. You should sue them. Trapped in elevators for hours on a luxury cruise line what kind of service is this? What kind? I tell you were I there, there would be hell to pay. Hell! You’ve been sitting around in your cabin reading haven’t you? Avoiding everyone. Being miserable and anti-social. I demand that you get out of your cabin and go about talking to people like you used to instead of hiding out. I demand this. Now. Go.”
Nayan woke up with Sacha’s French in his ear clear as a bell and effervescent as a phantom, so real he sat up sharply in bed, twisting up right from the face down sprawl he’d fallen into the night previous. It had taken the cruise staff hours to get them out of the elevator and the small blond girl had been an insufferable brat of a class his wife would have slapped across the mouth. Nayan merely suffered her in teeth gritted agony and developed another migraine to replace the one he’d ridded himself of earlier. The day after that, he spent all day in bed until Sacha’s ghost began to scold him out of bed.
He sat there for a moment, a cone of bright light from the window telling him it was still early morning, but not so early that he had the right to go back to sleep. His heart, for whatever reason was pounding and he was aware painfully of potent and precise ache in his stomach. Like anxiety or nausea and he realized after a moment that he missed his wife and her sarcastic way of talking very much in that confused moment.
“Up,” he said, rolling to the bathroom where he showered, got dressed and left for the upper deck. The tropical heat warmed the morning and with some determination Nayan – with a book of ridiculously hard to read French literature that Sacha was pushing on him – took a seat cross legged on a sofa set out on deck. There he bent his focus to reading his un-native tongue and imagined – as he always did – the complex cadence of European syllables were some kind of cipher to be uncoded by him. Tucked up as he was in the sofa cushions was not really the most dignified sort of position but the decks were empty.
He was uncomfortably aware of the emptiness.