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: (grin - goober)
June 11th, 2017:

It's been over half a year in Darrow, now, and she's trying not to think of her current, relative comfort as settling. She has a job that still feels too good to be true, and both her wardrobe and her social circle are more expansive than what she had back home. It's not enough to make up for the absence of her family, of course. But she has to admit, if only to herself, that it's a relief to no longer be aching for them all the time, or even most of the time. It's a relief to have other things on her mind, to have business to attend to.

Not that this is business, per se. She's just exploring the boardwalk. Now that the shops are all officially unshuttered, she's trying to get a sense of what's there -- easier done without Saoirse or Jordan or anyone else in tow, though it's ultimately as much for their benefit as hers. She'd like to have some ideas of what might appeal to them ahead of time, instead of just wandering the length of the place with a child in tow and hoping something might catch their eye.

It's a pleasant afternoon, and there's a decent crowd. It's easy to let herself get carried along at an ambling pace; she's in no hurry, and it's not so packed she can't step around people if she needs to. And when she does find herself held up, it's behind a young man who has a rather adorable baby, peering wide-eyed at her from over his shoulder.

Another silver lining for all the time she's spent here is that the sight of other people's babies doesn't pain her anymore. She gives the child a smile and a little wave, and after a moment of nonplussed consideration, the baby rewards her with a broad grin and a shriek. Greta chuckles a bit ruefully. "That's on me, I'm afraid," she tells the child's father when he glances back at her. "I didn't mean to wind her up."
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