Oliver. King. (cyprian) wrote in repose, @ 2016-03-05 00:46:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | *narrative, oliver king |
Who: Oli
What: Narrative of Oliver plottings.
Where: Sonrisa
When: Recent
Warnings: None.
Different from first thing in the morning when it just smelled clean. Afternoons wore a perfume of toluene and xylene and the acetone of paint thinner. Oliver kept the front door propped open so that a breeze could whip through the shop and keep everyone's eyes from watering. It was a courtesy not typical of him, but he figured that courtesy would help him keep this job when Sam eventually returned, even if at this point, it was looking that was never to happen. Oliver figured that in the name of full disclosure, or at least preserving some sense of honesty with oneself, it wasn't really the job that he cared to keep. It was the plume of colored pencils ready to be worn down to splinters, the dalmatian speckle on brushes, the pigments and glazes and stacks of drawing paper.
The chemical smell used to help him think, or maybe it kept him from thinking too much, but today it was just bitter and sharp in his nose. It was a distraction that he was forced to push past to that he could aim to concentrate on the most pressing issue he was facing in his life at the moment. What exactly was he going to do about his brother and Sasha? Normally, Oliver didn't invest too much of himself into understanding the preoccupations of Jude. Jude was a more social creature than Oliver, as different as brothers could be, and Oliver understood that with little interest in understanding the whys behind it. They were as different as two brothers could be, the only real binding between them being that which they wove themselves out of a mutual affection. But what Oliver viewed as Jude's preoccupation with Sasha, he didn't like that. He didn't understand it. Although, to be fair, he hadn't tried to understand it. Maybe he should change that, and with the grand opening of her theater, it seemed like a prime opportunity to do so.
At that moment, a customer walked into Sonrisa. She was an older woman with too many highlights, and she was on her cellphone with a pet sitter, whatever that was, discussing an upcoming trip out of town that was planned to extend through the end of March. He didn't find the conversation particularly interesting, even as she went on to detail the many amenities of her lakeside mansion. Oliver didn't lust after indoor swimming pools, dry saunas, or vintage libraries. So he doodled on some receipt paper and listened idly, in case she looked up or asked for help finding anything in the store. She didn't, she carried on as if oblivious to him, running her fingers over little tubes of oil paint and brush bristles as she detailed the conversation with her address and alarm codes.
That Oliver found interesting. He glanced up from beneath a flop of dark hair when she hung up, then quickly looked down again at his doodling. The woman proved to only be browsing, and she turned for the exit without purchasing anything at all. Oliver glanced up one last time as she left, smiling due to the sugarplum daydreams of alarm codes and empty mansions. "Have a nice day."