dahlia is a total (kayo) wrote in repose, @ 2016-02-11 17:15:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, dahlia haight, matt devlin |
Trailer Park: Dahlia & Matt
Who: Dahlia H & Matt D
What: You, me, the flagpole, at recess. Don't wuss out.
Where: Dahlia's.
When: Couple of days after this; pre-mist.
Warnings/Rating: Sparring-type violence and swears because, well. Dahlia.
The trailer park landlord had told Dahlia that the previous guy on her plot really liked fishing. So much so that he'd died doing what he loved--drowned, in the lake he apparently hadn't been smart enough to avoid, because anyone who lived in this town for longer than three seconds fucking knew the rumors about that place.
But anyway, that was why there was this random, rickety shed behind her trailer, just in front of the tree line: the last dude had put it up because he needed a place to park his boat in the off-season. Said boat was now at the bottom of the fucking lake, so the landlord had rented it to her for a good deal. Otherwise, the plot just sat vacant since no one could be bothered to tear the damn thing and its peeling paint job down to make room for a longer, proper-mobile-home-sized deck. But for Dahlia and her little tin can, it worked just fine. Great, even. She hadn't done much to make the shitty shed any less shitty, but she had made it hers. Used only her own two hands to do it, too, and that's what had mattered the most.
The chain-and-padlock hung loosely off the double doors, anticipating a visitor. Dahlia decided she didn't need anyone seeing the inside of her grimy trailer where she'd been hibernating all winter, so she'd given the internet stranger her address and told him to just meet her 'round back--nonplussed by stories of m4w meetups gone wrong. She was a tough girl, right? And Schrodinger's creep or no, she had promised the guy a date. For an ass beating.
Either way, she would deliver.
Dahlia needed to warm up, anyway, in more than one aspect. Though a space heater valiantly whirred away in one corner, the papered walls didn't provide a lot in the way of insulation. The shed relied on heat generated from movement, bodies, those sharp huffs of breath as she circled around on springy foam mats that covered most of the frigid, oily concrete--aside from a space cluttered with greasy tools in front of the doors, where she parked her pride and joy. The heavy bag, lovingly patched with duct tape, had been pulled down from its chain in the naked rafters to free up room. Not a lot more, but left them with space a smidge smaller than a ring if they skirted around her set of free weights against one wall. And she'd made do with less before, so what-the-fuck-ever. Workable.
The shed smelled strongly of motor oil and sweat and, beneath all that, the afternoon coffee she'd tried to cover the stench of old whiskey with. Homely and comfortable, to a certain type of person. Floral tattoos on her thighs peeked out from the edge of her shorts--the rest of the ink was zipped up beneath a hooded sweatshirt, tight across her shoulders and arms. With a tinny beat blaring from earbuds under the hood, Dahlia boxed with her shadow, hips twisting and bare feet shuffling on the cold mats to this dance she'd done a million times before.