01-02-2011, 08:12 PM
The human woman's elfin face, splayed so charmingly across the once-glossy page, was red-lipped and blue-eyed as she smiled with feigned exuberance at Vera's own down-turned gaze. Beside the tumble of rich mahogany hair were images of a tube of lipstick and mascara. Her mother had owned both items, unused but often stroked with peculiar reverence; it was only in hindsight she realized her mother's eccentricities, her poorly hidden admiration (a poor word, Vera corrected herself; it was obsession) for the human race that had caused its own destruction. Vera's hand smoothed across the page, brittle from water damage beneath the comforting satin of her glove.
A rumble from behind halted her fingers as they traced across the human's golden cheek, sun-kissed and so smooth, she thought. She did not turn around to face her company until he had finished speaking, her brow furrowing and her mind somersaulting with pinpricks of intrigue. A Russian -- there was no mistaking the lilt to his voice, saying more than his words could, for as she listened, in her palm she held a neighbor's prized Fabergé egg; underfoot was the Siberian tundra, guileless and beautiful. Like the nameless man standing before her, she didn't bother with fanfare. "No, I know where nothing is." she returned in an even alto, watching him carefully. Alcohol was no foreigner to her. She had consumed her fair share of vodka and remembered it as bitterly as it had tasted.
"Where you from?" Her curiosity, never one to wait, pinched and prodded and urged her to interrogate him, to ease her ignorance. The woman rose from the bench, facing him with the magazine rolled in one hand as if she might swat at him for his shortcomings. Her expression was as cool as her voice, detached and ever loyal to her fortified composure. Her posture as impeccable as if she carried a wooden board instead of a spine, she tapped her foot idly, shifting her weight and crossing her arms, one still clutching the magazine -- such human mannerisms! -- as she looked at him through pale eyes. As an afterthought, the white Russian added, "Vera, from Moscow." Her parents' disappointment at her ill manners was as present in her mind as if she felt the sudden sting of a slap and the harsh words of reproach. Vaguely, she felt a sense of embarrassment; her lips twitched downwards, followed by the faintest of sighs.
Sparing a glance to the dethroned cityscape surrounding, she unwound her arms from her torso, placing the magazine in her satchel. Its barren streets were perplexing, entirely alien to the European vibrancy to which she was accustomed. Festivals, barterers, children, music -- it had all filled her, so completely, in Moscow. It was with absentminded indifference she thought of the parties she imagined in her home, only faintly acknowledging the beginning of a new year. Fitting, that she would find herself in a new place, but there was a sense of foreboding in her adventure's (could one call it that? She did not feel adventurous at that moment) desolation. Another sigh, this time extinguished while still brooding deep in her chest.
(527 -- I was interrupted halfway through, and when I came back to it, I completely lost steam. Sorry about the disjointed shortness.)
A rumble from behind halted her fingers as they traced across the human's golden cheek, sun-kissed and so smooth, she thought. She did not turn around to face her company until he had finished speaking, her brow furrowing and her mind somersaulting with pinpricks of intrigue. A Russian -- there was no mistaking the lilt to his voice, saying more than his words could, for as she listened, in her palm she held a neighbor's prized Fabergé egg; underfoot was the Siberian tundra, guileless and beautiful. Like the nameless man standing before her, she didn't bother with fanfare. "No, I know where nothing is." she returned in an even alto, watching him carefully. Alcohol was no foreigner to her. She had consumed her fair share of vodka and remembered it as bitterly as it had tasted.
"Where you from?" Her curiosity, never one to wait, pinched and prodded and urged her to interrogate him, to ease her ignorance. The woman rose from the bench, facing him with the magazine rolled in one hand as if she might swat at him for his shortcomings. Her expression was as cool as her voice, detached and ever loyal to her fortified composure. Her posture as impeccable as if she carried a wooden board instead of a spine, she tapped her foot idly, shifting her weight and crossing her arms, one still clutching the magazine -- such human mannerisms! -- as she looked at him through pale eyes. As an afterthought, the white Russian added, "Vera, from Moscow." Her parents' disappointment at her ill manners was as present in her mind as if she felt the sudden sting of a slap and the harsh words of reproach. Vaguely, she felt a sense of embarrassment; her lips twitched downwards, followed by the faintest of sighs.
Sparing a glance to the dethroned cityscape surrounding, she unwound her arms from her torso, placing the magazine in her satchel. Its barren streets were perplexing, entirely alien to the European vibrancy to which she was accustomed. Festivals, barterers, children, music -- it had all filled her, so completely, in Moscow. It was with absentminded indifference she thought of the parties she imagined in her home, only faintly acknowledging the beginning of a new year. Fitting, that she would find herself in a new place, but there was a sense of foreboding in her adventure's (could one call it that? She did not feel adventurous at that moment) desolation. Another sigh, this time extinguished while still brooding deep in her chest.
(527 -- I was interrupted halfway through, and when I came back to it, I completely lost steam. Sorry about the disjointed shortness.)