The Baker's Wife (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
andhiswife) wrote2017-06-19 10:04 pm
andhiswife) wrote2017-06-19 10:04 pm
Entry tags:
The Tale You Tell
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.]
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.]
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But that's only a momentary distraction. Buoyed as he is by the weather, he's not blind. "How're you?" The Balladeer furrows his brow, stepping aside and angling his guitar case to keep from completely blocking sidewalk traffic. Maybe he's not launching immediately into trying to figure out what's wrong, but obviously he can tell that something is. Maybe she's been sick?
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Which only makes matters worse, of course. She really wishes she was better at lying.
Not that there's much point in wishing.
"Oh," she starts, as if she might be able to pull off some casual dismissal. Her throat is already starting to ache in a too-familiar way, though, and she doesn't trust her voice, so she trails off into a small, frustratingly hapless shrug. She knows what a worthless offering that is, but for the moment, it's all she's got.
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The Balladeer's first thought, naturally, is that someone has died. And maybe that's true, but no - people are a lot less likely around here to just get killed, aren't they? Most people don't even have guns. He glances over his shoulder as if to check, angling himself to block Greta from passerby a little. No matter the case, this is starting to look like a talk they shouldn't have in the middle of the street.
"Oh, well...you wanna grab a drink? Coffee," he clarifies; it's too early in the day for anything else, and he's warier about alcohol-as-comfort than alcohol-for-fun. Feels too familiar.
no subject
Coffee doesn't appeal to her, and neither does lingering out in public. If she has to have this conversation, she'd as soon do it in the privacy of her own apartment. She swallows past the lump in her throat, then hefts her bag of groceries. "Why don't you just come to mine? I've got to put these away." She focuses on the chore, holding that in her mind so she doesn't fixate on what she's going to say to him. Lying is something she can only really manage by text, where her face can't betray her. There's not much point in trying to keep him in the dark.
He might even take it better than most. He used to hang around dead people all the time.