andhiswife: (smile - appreciative)
Greta had given herself plenty of time. She'd needed it. There was a lot to read about modern-day dog ownership, and plenty of supplies to acquire. On top of that, she'd wanted to give her enthusiasm time to fade, if it was going to. The idea of getting a dog had struck suddenly enough to qualify as a whim. She needed to be certain that she wanted a dog for its own sake, and not just because she was desperate for something to do.

But her research hadn't put her off, and her enthusiasm hadn't waned. She staggered her supply runs, giving herself ample time to reconsider. But, two weeks after she first started seriously thinking about it, she finds herself with everything a dog might require. (Except for a bed. The necessity of that seems questionable, and she wouldn't know what size to get until she chose a dog, anyway.)

There's really no need to put it off any longer.

She calls Demelza, intending to suggest they find a time over the next few days, but she isn't surprised when her friend insists that they can make today work, and she doesn't argue. Within the hour, Demelza's cheerfully leading her towards one of Darrow's animal shelters.

"Thank you for this," Greta says for the nth time, her arm linked with her friend's and a long-absent bounce in her step. "It'll be good to have a second opinion."
andhiswife: (neutral - in the woods)
It's been a difficult week.

That's actually an understatement. But she can't let the full weight of it settle on her, not when she's out in public like this. So for as long as she's out here, doing some shopping, it's just been a difficult week.

She's told Baz and Simon about her situation. They'd offered to give her time off, but that wasn't what she wanted. The Gardens are one of the few places where she doesn't feel like climbing the walls. There's too much else going on, too many other things that require her attention. It's everywhere else that's the problem. Her apartment is too quiet and too empty and too immaculate; she can't even justify housework anymore because everything that could possibly need doing has already been done thrice over.

And she knows she has friends who would help her, who would be happy to provide company or distractions or whatever she needed. But that would require telling them. Repeating the story wouldn't make it any more real than it is already, but the thought of burdening anyone else with it -- and how could something this heavy not be a burden? -- turns her stomach. So much so that she's been politely deflecting the invitations she's received, rather than try to face anyone.

She'll say this for texting: it makes it easier to lie.

The thought of food rather turns her stomach, too, but she's getting groceries, anyway. Even if the chief appeal of cooking is making a mess that she would then have to tidy up, it's still a necessary chore. Her clothing is starting to hang a bit looser than it ought to, and she doesn't want to make new garments for what she knows, distantly, to be an impermanent state of affairs. So, groceries. She can do this.

[Find Greta looking terrible either at or en route to a grocery store, or on her way back to Candlewood. Closed unless we've spoken; hmu if you still want in.]
andhiswife: (melancholy)
June 12th, 2017:

She has no business going to work on Monday morning. She barely slept the night before, and she knows she ought to call in. Lying is easier over the phone. 'I'm sick' wouldn't be questioned; she feels sick, and she knows she'd sound it.

But the alternative to work is staying here, and she can't bear the thought of it. There are distractions at Green Gardens. There are reasons to put on a brave face and pretend nothing's wrong, and maybe that isn't wise, but it's what she wants. She wants to be brave. She wants nothing to be wrong.

She wants to get out of this too-quiet, too-empty apartment that has gone from borrowed lodging to all she has.

The really shocking thing is that it seems to work, at least in the beginning. Things she'd wanted to do become things she has to do: calm down, make herself presentable, leave her apartment, walk with purpose. The cool morning air soothes her, a little, and she doesn't glance toward the treeline or think about just how much of a waste those trips to Cabeswater turned out to be.

She arrives well before any of the children are awake, and doesn't even have to interact with anyone between the front door and the kitchen except for one of the cats (who submits with surprisingly good humor when, in a moment of weakness, she scoops it up and buries her face in its fur). And then there's breakfast to make -- something new, she decides, and a little ambitious, something that will require her full attention.

Even when people start to wake and poke their heads in, she's able to keep her composure. What's the alternative? She can't just start weeping in front of a child.

Still, there's no getting around her exhaustion, and it's harder to be distracted by the mundanities of cleaning up after breakfast. She finds herself pausing more and more often, staring right through the pile of dirty dishes she's ostensibly washing and swallowing past the lump in her throat. Catching herself after one such lapse, she gives her head a little shake and scrubs harder. She's already made it through most of her shift; she's not giving up, now.
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