tracey davis. (romanticist) wrote in thecellardoor, @ 2018-05-14 20:06:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! incomplete, black regulus, davis tracey |
who: Tracey & Regulus
when: Monday (is it Monday?) afternoon
where: Cafe (abhorrently named Star-Buck)
what: A moment of normality
Daphne, at the very least, was good for one thing. Though Tracey would argue that the list was much longer than the singular item, there was one thing in particular that she had proven over the past weeks with the opening of her lounge. While it wasn't necessarily like anything they'd had back home, it had been just enough. It didn't seem to matter whether it reminded her of a quiet pocket of a club, or the Slytherin common room -- it was a space that had been away from everything that was happening, or wasn't happening. Easy, predictable, normal. There had been something so terribly important about that singular piece of normalcy. Somewhere between the everlasting whinging of recent, and the irritating presence of puddles of water about their cottage, Tracey needed to be somewhere miles away from it all. Even if she couldn't properly get miles away, she could make herself as physically and mentally absent as anyone in this village could. At least, anyone not accustomed to living like a troll in the mountains. Tracey'd picked up what journals she had left that hadn't been left to soak up a mystery puddle, grabbed her bag from the kitchen's otherwise empty cupboards, and made her way across the bridge to the village. Though the lounge was an easy thought, that wasn't where she had ended up. Instead, she found herself standing outside the otherwise-neglected cafe, a pitifully hand-made sign that read "Star-Buck" in the window. It was enough to cause her to roll her eyes, but the rest of it wasn't terrible. The tables and chairs outside had been somewhat recently cleaned, at least enough that a simple cleaning charm could tidy them up enough. She made her way inside to find a french press in the depths of the cupboards and shelves. Looking at the haphazard way everything was shoved in places, she wagered whomever had taken charge of it for the short attention span they had, had no idea what they were properly doing. She set a kettle to boil whilst she pulled a small paper bag from inside the larger leather one. It wasn't at all her style, but it was better than the flimsy, cheap canvas ones that had been her alternative in the thrift. A number of days ago, she'd found a bag of coffee just sitting at the fireplace. All things considered, that was the most normal part of her day. She didn't see the point in taking it to the kitchens. What would they do with it but dilute it to within an inch of it's life? There might not have been any cream or sugar, but with the right treatment it was decent enough to not wholly need it. The grounds were carefully measured and added to the press before the water from the happily whistling pot. Tracey plucked a cup and saucer before making her way back outside. It might not have been the streets of Paris, or even London, but it was sunny and reasonably warm even for the white lace maxi dress she'd rescued from the back of the thrift. With the smell of fresh coffee, the quiet street, and her journals spread out on the table before her, it was close enough. Her quill in hand, Tracey had found enough miles to put between her and everything in the village that was supposed to matter so crucially at that moment. |