ᴡɪᴛᴄʜ ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ (arcane) wrote in summerview, @ 2019-03-17 07:31:00 |
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Entry tags: | oksana kuznetsovich, player: lee, zjames byrne |
someday when we are wiser
Who: Oksana & James
What: A picnic after not seeing each other for awhile - catching up? And an emotional sort of talk
When: Recently!
Where: Oksana's Secret Enchanted Hiding Spot™ in the forest
Rating: PG-13 for depressing talks of death and grief and all that
Status: Complete
Horses. Agh. Oksana eyed the stables with open suspicion as she pulled up to James’ address. She couldn’t actually see any of the beasts from the Mustang but she knew they were there. Waiting. Watching. Chewing. Standing around being creepily tall. Oksana didn’t like horses. She liked James, though, and God knew it’d be nice to talk to someone without being after donations. Lately, she was starting to feel downright mercenary. If only she had access to the damn Vault… Ah, well. Oksana pressed the horn and the Mustang hollered obligingly. “Charming, isn’t she?” James said to his animal companions - only Prince really seemed to be listening, whereas Cheeto was content to lick his fuzzy bum and completely ignore the proceedings. But that was alright - it just took James a moment to pack up the dinner he’d prepared, one that he hoped wouldn’t disappoint. No cherries, as promised, but instead he had some classic, old-fashioned goulash, pear salad, crusty bread, two large goblets of mulled wine to-go, and a pan of decadent fudge. Perfect. Outside he went, carrying the wicker basket with everything packed inside. It was still technically winter so he’d gone with warm foods good for the season - and it was especially prudent that they be warm, since Oksana suggested dining al fresco. He had a cosy jumper on beneath his leather jacket, worn boots taking him to the Mustang - which was a step or two above his own Mustang, let it be known. That thing was forever on its last leg, yet kept stubbornly hanging on. “Darling, I can’t think of anything more romantic than you blaring the horn outside my house,” he said as he got into the car. “Do I get a kiss hello?” It had been some time since he’d seen her - come to think of it, he’d missed her quite a bit. There had been a lot of encounters over the years, but not all of them were memorable. “We’re not giving a free show to the livestock,” Oksana said. But she tilted over to peck James’ cheek all the same. She had missed him, odd as it was to admit. Inside the dark green Mustang, it was warm and comfortable, Maria Marì playing softly in cheerful Italian. “I still can’t believe you settled in the States,” Oksana said. “Let alone Jersey. Seriously, are you sure you didn’t just sleep through your actual landing? They’d love you in California. Or maybe New York. You’d absolutely kill in New York, Mr. Byrne.” When she kissed his cheek, a grin crackled to life like a flame on a cold night. James settled in, buckling up - well, of course he did. He had no clue where they were going, after all - Oksana could be driving them to Rhode Island or something. Such an adventure. “I was in New York for a bit, actually,” he said. “Brooklyn. With a coven of witches - didn’t do much killing.” No, he’d left those things behind back in the UK. That wasn’t to say he would never dabble in the dirty work again, for the right price or the right motivation - but in general, not so much. “But isn’t it quite fortuitous, then, that we both ended up here? I’m guessing that since you distinctly avoided any talk of Summerview in our initial meeting you wanted to remain as far away as possible.” And yet here she was. With a slight inheritance issue to contend with, apparently. "Fortuitous being interesting and interesting being a Chinese curse," Oksana said dryly. "I hadn't been long out of Summerview when we first met. And my leaving wasn't completely, hm, amicable. Or voluntary." She grinned suddenly. "Frankly, if we had talked about Summerview then you'd have received a very uncomplimentary report. Seriously, think Yelp review of Hell circa ninth circle. Avea di vetro e non d’acqua sembiante… etcetera, etcetera." The song switched to Un bel di vedremo by Callas. Oksana skipped the track without taking her eyes off the road; she'd never really learned to like Madame Butterfly. The next song was Puccini-free: Twenty-five years and my life is still trying to get up that great big hill of hope, for a destination… "A coven, though. Does that mean they roped you into doing Barrier duty already?" James supposed he could understand the disdain. If your father was the Big Wig Enchanter of the place, and had always been that way, he gathered that the whole bag came with its own...frustrations. “You’re free to loathe the place, I certainly don’t take offense,” he assured. “I’m just glad to run into you again. You’ve got to admit it’s a better situation than a drug-fueled party.” Maybe? Perhaps? He snorted at the idea of being roped into barrier duty, though idly hummed along with the song - in key, of course. There was musical skill within this one - he’d never heard the tune before, but could pick up on the melody and harmony quick enough. “I help when I’m asked to,” he shrugged. “Though if you ask me to help, I’d be more inclined to be excited about it.” James was good with wards, and protective spells in general - though the barrier had been quite a hot spot lately, hadn’t it? All poked and prodded, poisoned or blown up or whatever else. He didn’t quite know what to do about the slew of problems - efforts to organise something were poor, and a ‘too many cooks in the kitchen’ situation never helped matters either. Every witch’s magic was different. “I don’t - “ What, loathe Summerview? Love Summerview? Understand Summerview? The place had been a lot easier to comprehend when she was nine - or nineteen. She’d felt so strongly about things then. The very idea of feeling so now completely exhausted her. “The day I start recruiting for the Barrier crew, you have my permission to order a CAT scan,” she said. She eased onto the Mustang’s breaks. “Or a mercy bullet.” The popular Summerview destination for picnics was the falls. True to nature, Oksana didn’t drive towards the falls; she headed for the forest. It wasn’t a long drive (nowhere in Summerview deserved a long drive) and soon enough the Mustang was parked on the dense, green edge of the forest. The impenetrable mass of trees felt like the prologue to a Grimm fairy tale. Okana got out of the car, popping open the trunk to retrieve a small backpack. She stomped her a few times, eyeing the forest with a city girl’s suspicion. Overall Oksana looked dressed for a trip to Chamonix rather than a picnic, but the boots were reassuringly level on the uneven ground. She looked at James. “So fair warning, I’m mostly sure I remember where we’re heading. But it’s not exactly on the beaten path. Also, please note the mostly.” Her expression was more wry than worried. “You got enough supplies in that basket to tide us over if we need to wait for a rescue party?” The sun hadn’t sank completely beneath the tops of the pine trees yet, so the light streaked through the boughs in these brilliant and shadowy beams - James followed Oksana, black brow poking upward when he saw she had a rucksack with her. Were they planning to camp out? He’d have been alright with a couple of blankets, yet he wondered what else she had in there. But ah, what a pleasant aroma - take in that scent of leaves and loam, hmm? “We should be alright before we’ve got to resort to eating each other,” he winked. Besides, the forest in Summerview wasn’t some maze - the island was only so big, anyway. Eventually they’d find a stretch of beach after enough wandering. “So I’m curious, love - “ He caught up with her, picnic basket carried over one arm. The other, he looped around hers. “Once you settle estate matters, what do you plan to do? And in the meantime, how are you keeping yourself from going batty?” Especially if Summerview was akin to one of Dante’s lost circles of hell. "Book two weeks in Bali, buy out the 2022 Balenciaga Fall collection, and then devote myself to a project that truly serves the community. Like a specialty cheese shop. For dogs." Oksana stomped on a pointedly innocent twig; it crunched very satisfyingly under her heel. "Honestly, hell if I know, James. If there's anything to the rumors flying around then in three years who knows what – who knows how it'll be? I may turn cracked in preemptive self-defense." She stopped suddenly, turning her head to better listen…and, yes, there it was. Her arm eeled out of James' grip. "Ok, so there's hope for the ol' girl yet. It's right whawhoa! " Oksana's boot skidded on a damp patch of leaves, and suddenly she was pitching forward and – – gone. A specialty cheese shop for dogs? That sounded like Prince’s dream come true - and maybe James’ too, let’s be honest. “Rumours, like the ones where ‘war is coming’ and it sounds like something from Game of Thrones?” he inquired (and what a fantastic show - this was the almost accurately-depicted era where beheading someone for an insult was socially acceptable). He’d make a note to get more detail about that later, because before he knew it, there went Oksana. Quick as lightning, he attempted to grab her to stop her from falling - but she didn’t exactly fall, it was like she was swallowed by some invisible gaping maw. Well, that was disappointing. “Does this mean I don’t get another date, darling?” he asked...the forest. And he shifted the basket on his arm, beginning to poke around leaves and twigs for her. “You could have just had a friend call and pretended it was an emergency, you know, if you wanted to escape that badly...” Christ, what the actual fuck. "James? Can you hear me, hey, James? Okay, here we go – I got it. Don't panic, all right? Just try to go limp." Strong, and impressively determined, hands grabbed James' arm and pulled - – tumbling through a blurred impression of branches overhead and sunlight, mulch slick as wet rubber underfoot, dragging and falling towards – – an old and enormous oak, large enough large that four people could’ve circled the trunk without their fingers touching, the lichen covered trunk dense as a wall, the wall right in front of them, right there – "Hold your breath!" - the bark shivered, parting like fabric. Oksana half-stepped, half-crashed through, James arm still firmly clasped. The shock was landing made her crash to her knees. They were inside a space much bigger than even the oak's wide trunk would’ve allowed - normally. If that didn’t tip off the visitor to magic being involved, then the fact that the “room” was pleasantly warm, bug-free, carpeted with summer grass - in February - and equipped with glowing hearth in the middle of the floor would be the next hint. There were two shallow berths, hollow benches seemingly made of tree’s roots, on either side of the space; neither looked quite big enough for an adult (unless the adult was woefully Oksana-sized). A low cabinet covered in painted handprints nestled in a corner. But the most peculiar feature by far was the ceiling. Namely, that there was none; instead, the top of the makeshift room opened into a wide, perfectly circular view of the sky above. Still on her knees, Oksana allowed herself a controlled collapse to the side. "Illusionary doorways – gotta love 'em." She rolled her head to peer at James. "All parts present and accounted for, or do I owe you a new set of toes?" Try to go limp? James almost made a quip about how that was the first time anyone had ever said that to him before, but then he was being pulled and tugged through another dimension, it felt like. Or, rather, tugged through a secret doorway - the scent and sensation of magic was unmistakable; though it wasn’t the fire magic James knew and called upon, it was that fresh, clean, almost astringent and minty smell of an Enchanter’s brand. What he picked up on from the first time he ever met Oksana. Well, there were are. Having emerged into a space that distinctly reminded him of Middle Earth, he cleared his throat and gave himself a pat down to ensure he still had everything. “Think we’re good, love,” he assured. “Now this is incredible - look at that view...” A lack of ceiling meant that he could see what looked like a curtain draped over the sky - night was falling, and soon the stars would be visible, milky, blinkling like fireflies. Now he knew why she had the blankets, since both of them wouldn’t fit on those benches. Or at least James certainly wouldn’t. The cabinet also caught his eye, and he wandered closer to investigate. “Hidden childhood escape room?” he guessed. “Preadolescent panic room,” Oksana said. She ran a hand through the thick, soft grass. The tender blades were like something out of a perfect Easter basket: pretty and vaguely unreal. It was slightly sweet even, she knew. Oksana had a momentary perverse urge to rip up handfuls of the stuff just because it was there and she could, and what right it did have being so perfect still - She didn’t. It was only grass. “That won’t open, you know.” Oksana angled back on her elbows, jerking her chin towards the cabinet. “Not without the magic word.” “I assumed as much. Though now I’m curious about what you keep in here,” James chuckled, however he wouldn’t linger and attempt to break into the cabinet - ‘not without the magic word’ was right, and there was no amount of clanging or banging that would force the door open. Not that he’d try regardless - that would be rude. Instead, he shuffled over, hand reaching down to give Oksana’s shoulder a squeeze - she was so tense, all the time, though this excursion was meant to be a respite from the shithole known as life; ergo, he would try make it as stress-free as possible. So he settled beside her, opening the basket he’d brought. “Nothing’s gone cold, at least - not with me around,” and with a simple heating spell cast, the mulled wine was fragrant and fresh, as was the main course. He started by pouring the wine into two cups. “Did you use this panic room much in your youth, then?” Oksana startled slightly at the touch. Only slightly and that only for a moment, but it momentarily rewrote her face into something younger. The expression quickly fled under the force of the smile that followed. “Ah, yes, I forgot about your double life as a thermos.” She levegered the rest of the way, folding her legs neatly under her. “Nice to know you can fall back on working as an oven if the chef gig starts to boret. How in the world did you end up in the kitchen, by the way? I don’t think I ever actually asked.” James almost winced - because really, that was a godawful attempt at avoidance. Here he thought Oksana was better at it than that, but actually, he was quite glad that she wasn’t. That way he could redirect easily enough and, oh, trust that he would. Because it was like she suddenly grabbed the wheel of the car and jerked it off a cliff or something, given the nature of that swerve. “I like to think I’ve a few other uses besides thermos,” he huffed in amusement, sipping on the wine. It tasted like the perfect mish-mosh of spice, and winter, as opposed to a medieval plague remedy - which was what he was going for, when he got busy with grinding up cinnamon, ginger, cloves, and so forth. “I don’t know, love, I honestly just kind of fell into it - I was practising potions and brews, and working as a bartender, so I graduated to actual food next. Plus during my youth, I had a few restaurant gigs,” he shrugged. “Before I realised I mostly hated people.” And not like people had gotten much better as a whole, but that was to be expected. “You can talk to me, you know,” he added. “Or not talk.” It was an offer that didn’t require every single lull in conversation to be filled with chatter - that got old, fast. “I may fancy you a little, but above all else I’m your friend.” When Oksana finally spoke it was in a pleasant, amused voice. A crème-and-cake party voice. She rolled the wine in her cup while she did and didn't look at James. "Do you ever bother with giant jigsaw puzzles?" she asked. "I'm talking about the sadistic four thousand piece monsters that are basically a cloud in fifty nearly identical shades of fuck-you whitish blue. Well. When I was nineteen my life was one of those – after someone had scrambled the pieces, flushed a handful down the crapper, and had the cat pee on the rest for good measure." "According to nineteen-year old me, at least," Oksana added nonchalantly. "Others, possibly, disagreed." She carded her free hand through the grass again, watching it slide easily as water between her fingers. "The thing is, before that? Life was a goddamn fairy tale. Almost literarily. I mean, how many kids can claim to have an actual fairy godfather? Mind you, my godmother's the real rarity. Or say that they were taught swimming by a mermaid? Got their history essays proofread by a guy older than Lincoln? And that's before we even start on the subject of Dad." "Dad, Nick, he was…" She shrugged. "He was the best part. Of all of it. Flying carpets, talking mirrors, singing chairs – Dad could make anything." She looked up at the perfect circle of sky above them. "He was one of the best Enchanters I've even known, even now. He tried to give us everything. Whatever you'll hear me say about the old man– and there's plenty waiting - I'll admit that he really, really did try." Until he claimed he couldn't which, in Oksana's view, was just a coward's way of saying wouldn't. "Few things prepare you for reality as badly as a happy childhood," Oksana said with wryness seeping into the vanilla tone. "And few, truly god damn few, things burn as much as being told by the people who love you to get over it. Move on. Make peace with it. Forgive, forget…" She raised her cup in a cheery salute, finally looking at James. "Personally I subscribe to the fuck 'em and fry 'em method of coping. Although prior to attaining my full legal majority, there may have been a slight preference to the latter." He didn’t know if he could call it a pattern, per se, but James tended to look after Oksana in the sense that if he didn’t nudge a plate in her direction, she’d likely forget to eat - even if that was why they were here in the first place. So he listened to her, dishing up goulash with some salad and bread (he even had linen napkins in this basket, how handy) - and he’d ensure she ate every bite of it too. “People have their own notions of how to best grieve, or when’s a good time to ‘get over it,’” he said. “They mean well when they say it but as a whole, I think people are just uncomfortable with grief. Or dealing with someone who has suffered loss.” Pull yourself up by your bootstraps, was it? Stiff upper lip? Those emotions were stifled instead of dealt with, and they churned violently within - he would know, he’d been there. James studied her, with iceberg eyes - she was one of those jigsaw puzzles, though he wouldn’t call her sadistic. Deep, rich, compelling - he had always liked her a little more than he should, since he doubted he ever would have a hope of keeping her. “What happened, Oksana? You don’t just turn to the frying method of coping without a reason.” In answer, Oksana held up hand with the fingers loosely curled; the platinum band with its odd three strip inlay pulsed dully in the light. At the third pulse there was an audible click from the painted cupboard. She waved her hand again, indicating the unlocked cabinet in invitation. “Have you ever been so disappointed by someone, James, that it recolors everything around that person? Whatever’s associated with them, whomever’s they’re with,” she added. “It’s not unlike grieving, if you think about it; in either case, your imagination is completely occupied with one person. Everything suddenly seems to relate back to that center, the fact of not having what you had before. There’s no other emotional life, no place outside the universe of feeling centered on that disappointment.” She paused, glancing down at her cup and, carefully, exchanging it for a plate which set it down near her. “This all sounds so predictably trite when I’m sober.” James had to consider the question for a moment. “I don’t think I have, no. Never been close enough to disappoint someone - or be disappointed by someone else,” he admitted, and that probably spoke to the superficiality of his dealings, his relationships over the years. He had no family. No true friends. He flitted from bed to bed, but he hadn’t many offers for something solid. He wanted otherwise, but long ago he had accepted the idea that you couldn’t always get what you wanted. “But I imagine it does create a very profound hollow feeling.” He was just hollow in a different way, that was all. Getting up to examine the contents of the now-unlocked cabinet, he was careful with what was inside. They were pieces of the puzzle too - remnants of that aforementioned happy childhood; he could practically hear the laughing of two sisters, starburst giggles. That was what made it all the more depressing - Oksana had lost a twin. Not just a sibling, but a twin - essentially a large part of herself, now gone, ripped away. No wonder she felt frayed to the quick. He wasn’t an empath, but her sadness - it seemed to drain through her rather than skate over her skin, the way his sometimes did. “Now that’s got to be you, with the Twizzler up your nose,” he stated, referring to the photo from what was apparently Halloween. There was so much in here that was random to him, but likely meant something to her - a plastic apple, chopsticks, little glass animals. He left everything where it was. Then he settled back near her and put his arms around her, drawing her close to kiss her temple. “You’ll never get over it, Oksana. You know that you won’t. But it’s alright, to never get over it. It’s not wrong.” Oksana wasn’t a crier. A screamer, a schemer, a kicker, a biter, and on a few occasions, a bona fide bitch, but tears were reserved for acid fumes and allergies. Anything else was simply too - tiring. God, but she was tired. Summerview made her tired even before she bought the plane ticket. Summerview made her tired when she was twenty and eating cheese-splattered toast in a smoky pub with a fox-hearted stranger. Summerview made her tired because Summerview was unsurvivable. (Bumblebee and Starscream. They’d wanted the costumes to match because they always matched. But Dad hadn’t been an expert on ‘bots so come Halloween they got one tiny robot and one giant bee. They’d foot wrestled for who got what. And then, of course, they’d switched repeatedly throughout the night anyway. Because that’s what they did, she and Kit, they always made sure one didn’t have more than the other. They shared because it was them, it was always them, it was always supposed to be them - ) “Nobody did anything.” Her hand curled tight enough to feel the platinum ring’s inlay press into into skin, the hard fist pressing into her thigh because otherwise it was either that or James. And she didn’t, Oksana honestly didn’t know what would happen whenever she raised her hand when talking about Kitty. “She died and everyone was sorry. And nobody did anything. Everyone was sorry.” She turned and pressed her cool, dry face to James shoulder. “I’ve spent the past thirteen years with sorry sitting like a fucking tumor in my tit.” Such a way with words. James nearly chuckled, because it was the macabre sort of humour he enjoyed - but it simply came out in a chuff of air, kind of like, you’re a mess, darling. His hand cradled the back of her head, with her face pressed to his shoulder. He didn’t feel tear stains and he doubted he would - but even if he did, he wouldn’t have jerked away. The fatigue, he could tell it was suffocating Oksana - it was a part of grief, surely, though everyone said grief moved through stages. That was shit. Sometimes it felt almost okay, and then other times it felt like being hit with a mack truck, barely able to be scraped off the pavement afterward. “Everyone always says sorry. They think it’s what they’re supposed to say - they don’t understand that, as much as they may care for you, they can’t help you.” That was a hard truth to face, wasn’t it? People always wanted to fix things. They wanted to make it better, because pain and suffering was uncomfortable to witness. “And so what do you plan to do now?” he asked, pulling back only enough to look at her. But, oh. They’d gotten to her, hadn’t they? He knew that they had - political unrest, shit stirring, bad juju brewing. It was a storm rising, tempest fast. And it was going to really irk him if they used the death of her twin to get to her. “I don’t know, James,” Oksana said. There was a new note of exerbance in her voice, more like torn metal than frayed thread. “I wasn’t planning to deal with any of this for another couple of decades. Enchanters live as long as witches given half a chance, and Dad wasn’t even seventy. He wasn’t supposed to - “ Oksana took a breath, singular and deep, and relaxed her hand. She didn’t quite pull away from James, but she turned her head and when spoke again it was serene. “Up until summer, I had a job I loved and a reputation I worked very, very hard to earn. I had a Medici ceiling, a coffee maker with its own pedigree, and a whole country of acquaintances who didn’t know the difference between a St. Pier and stoat.” With another huff, much like that of annoyed cat, Oksana finally pulled away to sit under her own power. She picked up her plate with resolution. “Now I have a house gone AWOL, a dead Dad, and visits from cops before breakfast. I don’t know what to do about any of it.” No wonder Oksana looked like she felt the weight of a fat man post-Thanksgiving dinner sitting on her chest. Not that she looked tired, or bad (of course not, she was quite lovely) - but James could just see it in the way she carried herself. The look in her cat eyes - they were telling. “For starters, eat that,” he said, motioning toward the plate she’d picked up. He’d consume his own eats as well. “Secondly, if you need a place to stay that’s not the bed and breakfast, I’ve got a spare room. Perhaps having someplace solid to actually live will help the rest of that fall into place. Don’t be afraid to ask for help either - from me, from someone. I don’t know.” He wasn’t certain if she was still close to anyone in town, but regardless, he was here and he wasn’t going anywhere. “You don’t need to figure out what to do with all of that on your own, is my point.” The last time I asked for help in Summerview, Oksana thought, I got deported. But it sounded juvenile and petty even in the privacy of her head. That didn't mean it was wrong, of course, just…outdated: old news, old scabs. The tiredness threatened to rise again and ruin the flavor of the goulash. The trouble was that when Oksana reflected on her life, which she truly hated to do unarmed with alcohol, it was too easy to catalogue examples of assistance. Her entire childhood, to start with. Every Summerview kid was a group project, the beneficiary (and dupe) of "it takes a village". Kitty and she had been what could only politely be called a "handful" apiece and Dad had quickly run out of hands. They'd never thought about it when they were kids or teenagers; they'd simply always had someone – Dad, Tulip, Mircea, Roman, half the bloody town – to help even if they never actually had to ask. Afterward, after Kitty, Oksana had asked. She'd asked for answers, and she'd asked for justice, and, when neither came, she'd asked for retribution. She’d begged. In return she got a one-way ticket to Russia. She'd asked the Kuznetsoviches for a family, but they best they had was an education. She'd asked Jacquemart to make her an Enchanter worth noticing; it got her Dad's attention and a goddamn ultimatum (and another Summerview ban!) The only thing Oksana asked after that was to be paid upfront. “I’ll have a place soon enough,” she said. “The house can’t hide forever. There are - factors. I have a plan.” She quickly filled her mouth with bread so as to avoid explaining exactly what that plan might be. “And what is the plan?” James inquired casually, removing the cover from the pan of fudge. “Though nevermind, I take that back. Don’t ask for help from me. You’re getting it whether you ask or not.” He wouldn’t kidnap Oksana and force her to take his spare room, but he’d find her during her transitory period and at least take her somewhere - out, someplace, maybe even to the diner in town. Little things, he didn’t know - but he’d do whatever he could. “I just don’t want to go a decade without seeing you again.” Besides, she was still grieving, in a sense - and her asking for help put the burden on her, one burden she didn’t need. He just hoped that her ‘plan’ wasn’t something completely asinine. "I don't like my wounds being touched," Oksana said, but very gently. Her free hand reached to smooth the corner of his mouth, as if brushing away crumbs; her fingertips were slightly warm from the bowl. "But thank you. For the food, and for coming out here with me. And for offering." And for being there that first time, when she had one foot out the window and a skin burning urge to be out, out, out… "You're a good man, James." Oksana's mouth quirked. "Though I promise not to confirm it in public." “Luckily it’s not your wounds I want to touch, darling,” James winked, taking her hand and kissing the tips of her fingers. A good man, was he? He didn’t exactly think so, but he wouldn’t argue - rather, he just wanted the best for Oksana. He cared about her, wanted to be a part of her life and wished they could choose that, instead of her choosing her ‘plan’ and him choosing the bottom of a bottle of booze. Well. Maybe next time. Some things had to play out as they would, anyway. |