More in the unnamed ficlet
Feb. 5th, 2008 11:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stinglikeabeeI've just realised how hard it is to start writing again. It's like riding a bike, or something, one that gets better with practice. Erm, not exactly happy with this and it will need an edit at the end, but whatever, at least I've written something :) BTW decided against posting two updates in one entry. I'll have to write more the next time.
EDIT: International Batman Day either on 14 Feb or 19 Feb; former if you're bitter and willing to preempt that other holiday, latter because it's his birthday, awww. Pass it on!
EDIT: International Batman Day either on 14 Feb or 19 Feb; former if you're bitter and willing to preempt that other holiday, latter because it's his birthday, awww. Pass it on!
Simon looped the end of a red tie under and pulled. The person in the mirror winced slightly. He leaned forward and considered using the eye drops again, but decided against it. Too much solution wasted from an unsteady hand. If anyone asks about the red eyes, he'd just have to mutter something about a rough night. He checked the clock on the dresser; it was five minutes before the hour. Quickly, he pulled on a grey coat from the back of the chair and fixed his shirt collar.
As he stood by the writing table, his eyes lay on the closed laptop. Simon never did manage to add anything to the opening line. Despite that unhappy fact, he still hoped to try again later. An idea was forming in his mind, but it was too fresh to fully grasp.
Carefully, the laptop went into a drawer. Simon turned the lock and placed the key in his open briefcase. He snap shut the case and flicked at the number lock, swinging it off the bed. Outside the bedroom he considered locking the door, but decided against it. He'd never had to lock it before, so why now? Without another thought to the matter he lifted his hat off the coat rack and stepped outside the door.
The lift was taking its time again, and Simon smiled wanly as he passed an unhappy couple waiting by the doors. They were arguing, and did not look away from the exchange when Simon passed by. The stairs were empty but a more welcoming sight. The sounds of his footsteps echoed in the closed space. He looked up at the confusing rectangles of steps and handles. There was no one. He rubbed the right eye with the back of his hand.
Simon's flat was only two stories up and very close to the stairs, a fact he deeply cherished. The problem was on the ground floor. The exit was in full view of the supervisor's personal quarters. He quickly slipped past the opening and headed towards the front entrance. It wasn't that he disliked the old woman, really.
'Mr Reynauld! Mr Reynauld!'
Simon sighed and turned around. The supervisor waved with a big meaty hand for him to come closer.
'Come and have breakfast,' she beseeched in her thick accent. He hadn't asked, but placed it somewhere in the Balkans. The supervisor nearly pounced on him as he ventured closer, grabbing an elbow and pushing him inside. 'Eat, eat.'
'Mrs Turpin please,' he started, gesturing to his wristwatch. 'I haven't the time.'
The supervisor wouldn't hear any of it. Simon knew living alone would make some people quite desparate for attention. Although he steeled himself by saying it wasn't his problem, a quick glance at Mrs Turpin's lace curtains and the collection of dinner plates with various kittens quickly eroded any resistance. He took the cup of tea offered and sat on a plastic-covered chair, balancing the saucer on his knees. The supervisor bustled around in her tiny kitchenette.
'Just the tea, Mrs Turpin,' he called out, but the old lady brushed the protestations aside and brought out a loaf of pumperknickel and a hunk of creamy cool butter. About fifteen minutes had passed by before Mrs Turpin was satisfied Simon had this breakfast. He smiled politely when she insisted on a heavy scarf and thanked her, even though it was uncomfortably hot. With a big smile, the supervisor patted his hand and said goodbye.
As he stood by the writing table, his eyes lay on the closed laptop. Simon never did manage to add anything to the opening line. Despite that unhappy fact, he still hoped to try again later. An idea was forming in his mind, but it was too fresh to fully grasp.
Carefully, the laptop went into a drawer. Simon turned the lock and placed the key in his open briefcase. He snap shut the case and flicked at the number lock, swinging it off the bed. Outside the bedroom he considered locking the door, but decided against it. He'd never had to lock it before, so why now? Without another thought to the matter he lifted his hat off the coat rack and stepped outside the door.
The lift was taking its time again, and Simon smiled wanly as he passed an unhappy couple waiting by the doors. They were arguing, and did not look away from the exchange when Simon passed by. The stairs were empty but a more welcoming sight. The sounds of his footsteps echoed in the closed space. He looked up at the confusing rectangles of steps and handles. There was no one. He rubbed the right eye with the back of his hand.
Simon's flat was only two stories up and very close to the stairs, a fact he deeply cherished. The problem was on the ground floor. The exit was in full view of the supervisor's personal quarters. He quickly slipped past the opening and headed towards the front entrance. It wasn't that he disliked the old woman, really.
'Mr Reynauld! Mr Reynauld!'
Simon sighed and turned around. The supervisor waved with a big meaty hand for him to come closer.
'Come and have breakfast,' she beseeched in her thick accent. He hadn't asked, but placed it somewhere in the Balkans. The supervisor nearly pounced on him as he ventured closer, grabbing an elbow and pushing him inside. 'Eat, eat.'
'Mrs Turpin please,' he started, gesturing to his wristwatch. 'I haven't the time.'
The supervisor wouldn't hear any of it. Simon knew living alone would make some people quite desparate for attention. Although he steeled himself by saying it wasn't his problem, a quick glance at Mrs Turpin's lace curtains and the collection of dinner plates with various kittens quickly eroded any resistance. He took the cup of tea offered and sat on a plastic-covered chair, balancing the saucer on his knees. The supervisor bustled around in her tiny kitchenette.
'Just the tea, Mrs Turpin,' he called out, but the old lady brushed the protestations aside and brought out a loaf of pumperknickel and a hunk of creamy cool butter. About fifteen minutes had passed by before Mrs Turpin was satisfied Simon had this breakfast. He smiled politely when she insisted on a heavy scarf and thanked her, even though it was uncomfortably hot. With a big smile, the supervisor patted his hand and said goodbye.
