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sirianasims · 9 hours ago

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𝗧𝗔𝗞𝗘 𝗧𝗪𝗢 (𝟮/?) | NAKAWE, USPANA, 1992

Booking an evening flight had been a kindness to his future self, but Renzo reconsidered as soon as he stepped into the shadowed interior of Leonor’s house. Warm light washed over her as she hurried over, and her greeting smile exuded warmth, too. The embrace lasted forever—or, it should have, which would have been less tempting in broad daylight. It was easier to rush in the morning. Most days started before sundown for good reason. Once afternoon hit, urgency deflated like a tire with a slow leak. After nightfall came the crashes.

🅝🅞🅣🅔🅢 - i am, all things considered, extremely pleased with this one

𝟭𝟵𝟵𝟰 🅐🅤 ‣ gameplay \ prev \ next

TRANSCRIPT:

LEONOR | You look so tired. RENZO | Uh huh. Sleep when you’re dead. LEONOR | Hm.

LEONOR | —No, I just need to put on my shoes and grab a sweater—

RENZO | You said you were ready to go. LEONOR | Well, yes, but— RENZO | That’s what you said. This is wasting time.

LEONOR | Can you take off the sunglasses? RENZO | What? [Huffs] Give me a fucking break— LEONOR | It’s a wall. I don’t like it.

LEONOR | Sorry. I’m nervous now. Afraid, a little. RENZO | I know.

LEONOR | Will you bring my bags downstairs? RENZO | … How many are we talking? [Leonor chuckles]

[Renzo groans]

RENZO | Why didn’t you take any of them to the car? LEONOR | I wanted to wait for you.

RENZO | Can’t you do anything on your own, Nora? Jesus. LEONOR | Why? RENZO | Are you kidding me? [Muttering] LEONOR | Shh. It’s okay. You need to relax.

RENZO | Yeah, probably. Now, please— LEONOR | Wait. I need to go change into my sweater. RENZO | Yes, get up, and then—

LEONOR | Do you think it would be expensive to ship this house? RENZO | To—? [Scoffs] What? All of this shit, that far? Absolutely. LEONOR | But prohibitively? Or too complicated? RENZO | Oh, I fully suspect you’ll find a way.

RENZO | Do you have anything in the car? LEONOR | Did you look in that compartment? RENZO | Nothing. LEONOR | Okay, well—

RENZO | There is the mobile phone. I bet he could meet us at the airport. LEONOR | Is that a good idea? RENZO | … Is it? You tell me. [Leonor sighs softly]

LEONOR | You’re already agitated, so, no, it’s not. RENZO | It doesn’t fucking matter. We’re leaving. Who cares? LEONOR | It matters to me. I need you. RENZO | Don’t say it like that.

LEONOR | It’s true. I need you fully present. I don’t know what I’m doing. I mean, I’ve never flown commercial before—talk about scary. [Renzo chuckles]

LEONOR | At least I’m, famously, a “quick study and a quiet shadow.” Maybe some parts of the princess skillset are still useful. I’m not a baby.

LEONOR | … What? Do you regret it? Agreeing?

RENZO | No, not yet.

RENZO | And, just so you know, I’d have bailed at a stoplight by now if I did. [Locks click, both laugh]

RENZO | But … I did, you know, think a lot about it on the train. LEONOR | Did you? Like what?

RENZO | I finally went, “Okay, you sorry bastard, if you don’t have honesty, you have zilch, true poverty of the soul, so: brass tacks it is.” I’ve been here before. I know what’s gonna happen. Only, probably, I’ll die this time. I don’t give a shit about that, I swear to God, but … I had to ask myself, “Is that what I want, for real, or is it just the easy option?”

RENZO | It scared me after you said it, that whole, “love me like I love you” thing. I don’t know what that means. I’m sorry, but I don’t.

RENZO | I love … life, sometimes. I love just drifting through it. Loud and bright and out of control? I love that shit. I love music—it’s, that, it’s life itself. Beautiful. Pure. Mother’s milk, someone said. I love poetics. I love drugs—the "scary" ones. You’re not supposed to say it, but I do. Honestly.

RENZO | Being fucked up … That’s when I love life the most—when it’s all beautiful and pure and detached, and the music and the high are all there is. I love when nothing matters. I’d die for that. I would. I’ve tried. That’s love, right? Trying. Faith. Maybe hurts some but, fuck it, it’s alright.

LEONOR | “To love someone is to suffer for them.” That’s what we say. RENZO | Your family? It’sdepraved bullshit, so that makes sense. LEONOR | But, it’s honest, isn’t it?

[Car horn honking] RENZO | Doesn’t make it right. It’s not romantic or whatever the hell. You, yourself, deserve better. Gentler. LEONOR | I wish that were true. I know what I was born into.

RENZO | See, it’s that. I want to love you, but not like that. You’re so certain about this—about me—when the only certainties I can see are shitty. Not for you. On the train, I thought, “Maybe I need to make better choices. Maybe I have options.” Do I want to go to hell, or do I want to … entrust myself to you, I guess? I know myself. I’ve had, what, thirty years to figure it out? Yep. Those are my options. One’s good. But not for you.

[Car engine shuts off] RENZO | No, come on, let’s— LEONOR | You’re crying … RENZO | Yeah, because everything is so fucking soul-crushing.

#reblog #cw drugs #them™️

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sirianasims · 13 hours ago

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And if you pay any mind to official reports, you should probably consider a change in career paths.

#reblog

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sirianasims · 15 hours ago

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According to all official statements and reports: our lives, and our careers - never touched.

#reblog #i love them your honor

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sirianasims · 15 hours ago

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I want to live where soul meets body, and let the sun wrap its arms around me. ~ Death Cab for Cutie, 2005

Camille left Ravenwood and headed straight for Ciudad Enamorada, where she found Etta home alone.

"Dr. Adams? Are you okay? You seem shook."

"Etta, do you own a deck of tarot cards?" Camille asked, a note of urgency in her voice.

The girl looked confused, which made sense considering her anthropology professor just showed up randomly on her doorstep after taking an unannounced sabbatical, asking about tarot cards. "Um...yeah. They belonged to my mom and she left them to me when she died."

"Will you get them for me, please?"

Etta went upstairs and returned shortly with the cards. With trembling hands, Camille took the box. On the top flap were the initials C.A. written in gold pen. Camille Adams.

"These..." she said. "These are my cards. I thought I'd lost them."

"But that's impossible."

"I can prove their mine, though," Camille insisted, handing Etta the box. "Find the Three of Cups, and you'll see that the corner has teeth marks from where..."

She trailed off, feeling unsteady, as if she might faint. A hurricane of thoughts, of memories, roared through her brain, and she was confused by what was real and what was not. But then a picture came clear...a baby boy with the Three of Cups in his mouth.

"Hendrix," she said. "Where Hendrix chewed the corner while he was teething."

"How did you know that?" Etta asked, her eyes every bit as round and surprised as Camille's.

"I just...do. I never used the cards. I just had fun collecting them from the Thinned Veil festival in Ravenwood. But I often let you look at them because you liked the pictures, and one day Hendrix grabbed a card."

"I started crying because he was ruining it and I thought you would be mad," Etta said.

"Instead, I hugged you and said that you and Hendrix were more important to me than cards, more important than anything in the whole world."

Etta flung herself at Camille...at her mother...and at that moment, with her arms wrapped tightly around her daughter, Caimile Adomako thought she heard a click, like the sound of a key in a lock.

#reblog #i am sobbing #welcome home caimile

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sirianasims · 17 hours ago

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[Act I, Scene III: Victor’s Basement]

TW: Death, decapitation, zombies, skeletons, mentions of murder. May include disturbing imagery.

(The basement is cold and silent.)

(VICTOR enters from stage right. He carries a handheld lantern which gives flickering light. He produces a match to light the candles around the room. A voice emerges from the darkness, interrupting him. Accompanied by deep bass, it is dark and haunting, and shadows seem to sway with the words.)

[THE WARNING]

THE NARRATOR Child of dust, hewn of bone Here you play with fate Grasping at where the veil is thin Rousing those that ought to sleep

VICTOR (startled) Who hides in the gloom and speaks in riddles? Step forth and reveal yourself!

(The lantern flares as THE NARRATOR emerges from the darkness. VICTOR takes a step back.)

THE NARRATOR I am THE NARRATOR, the held breath The hand that writes, the one that waits I give warning to those close to the line The line that should not be crossed

(VICTOR looks up defiantly at THE NARRATOR.)

VICTOR So you are Death, here to kill me?

THE NARRATOR Not at all. I do not take lives, I merely warn. You walk a path paved in bone A path devoid of light or warmth Choose wisely, Wakefield, or you’ll find That the price is steep when the dead won’t die

(A look of understanding begins to dawn on Victor’s face, and along with it, renewed hope. He walks past THE NARRATOR.)

VICTOR What have I done to warrant a warning so grave From a being of a higher natural order? If you are here, then surely it means That what I pursue is within reach!

THE NARRATOR and VICTOR (overlapping) Foolish man, do you not see / Could it be that I’m onto something That you are headed for doom? / Could it be that I’m close? What you seek cannot be done / Nothing now can convince me to Turn back the way from which you came / Turn back the way from which I came

(THE NARRATOR shakes his head, resigned. He bows and steps backwards, fading once again into the shadows.)

THE NARRATOR So be it then, Victor Wakefield. Your choices are your own. I hope for your sake I need not return.

(VICTOR does not react – in fact, he doesn’t even notice the leaving. He stands, eyes wild, exhilarated.)

VICTOR This is my moment, my time to push And hold nothing back For if I at last succeed The grave will be silent no more!

(The music rises, triumphantly. VICTOR dashes to his workbench. All around him, the candles flare to life, illuminating the space.)

(He begins to work. The clock behind the workbench spins rapidly, showing the progression of time. As he works, three coffins emerge from the darkness. They open, spilling fog over the ground, and three figures step out.)

[THE DEAD THREE]

(In the candlelight, one figure steps forward. The strings are played in pizzicato, except a solo violin slithering through the melody.)

MONTGOMERY (growling, bitter) In life I was a rogue, a gambler, a cheat Although some have said I was a fine lover too But one night a poor sap took offense And shoved a dagger straight into me!

Oh, how I screamed and swore and cursed But nothing reversed the blood that left me And then I was buried where the worms ate me But now I’m back, though I’d rather be dead!

(The score changes to strong, declarative brass – a fanfare accompanying a grand entrance.)

SANTINO (boldly) In life I was a strongman in a circus I could lift a horse, or crush a tree But one night I picked a fight with gravity And the tightrope hit my neck on my way down!

Then my head rolled away from my body Or was it my body rolling away from my head? Now I sing with half a windpipe In this life more frightening than death!

(The brasses fade to forlorn woodwinds.)

THEODOROS (swaying, wistful) In life I was a poet of the dreaming kind Bathed in absinthe and candlelight But the world did not care for my words And let me fade to the hunger and cold

Now all that remains is bone and dust And still I am starved for food and love Why must I continue on this way Beyond the rest of the dark night?

TRIO (MONTGOMERY, SANTINO and THEODOROS) Now here we are, we didn’t ask for this But snatched from death we were nonetheless

MONTGOMERY A rogue

SANTINO A strongman

THEODOROS A forgotten poet

TRIO Playing our bygone roles again!

(VICTOR pays no heed to the lamentations of his creations. He kneels next to a coffin towards the back of the room. The orchestral score fades away. A music box on his workbench opens and begins to play ELESSA’S THEME.)

VICTOR (softly, almost a whisper) I am so close, Elessa my love Until I hear your voice I will give anything If only I could see your smile again…

(The music box winds down. The curtains fall.)

Beginning | Previous | Next

---

Hi everyone! I’ve moved to Australia this week and I’m starting a new job on Monday, so I’m not sure if I can keep up my weekly posting schedule. Also BG3 patch 8 drops this week (i.e. date night with Astarion). I will make an effort to keep posting as usual because I find it really hard to pick up momentum if I lose it, but if I suddenly disappear into the aether, that’s why!

Thank you all for reading, always ❤️

#reblog #the talent

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sirianasims · 20 hours ago

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AU April - Celebrity

(Is it really an AU if Paul's already a celebrity? Who cares!)

#AUaprilsims #julia duchelli #paul romeo

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sirianasims · 20 hours ago

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choose your fighter feat @adelarsims's onion headline collection

#reblog #cackling

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sirianasims · 1 day ago

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AU April - Western

#tzr

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sirianasims · 2 days ago

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𝗧𝗔𝗞𝗘 𝗧𝗪𝗢 (𝟭/?) | NAKAWE & CANARIS, USPANA, 1992

Renzo returned her calls belatedly. He was not someone who checked the answering machine; the indifferent prerecorded message a missed caller would hear was sincere, including his offhand claim that he only had such a device because it was "cool." Or, it had been. [continued below ↓]

🅝🅞🅣🅔🅢 - 1) to be explicit, the whole premise of this is "how does the au diverge from canon," so ... this is how. [some series of Spoilers] happened, and this is the aftermath. thrilling, huh. 2) gotta listen to "kashmir" by LZ to get the Full Effect™ & 3) i phoned in much of this bc i got tired of tinkering and just wanted to share it already !!!!! so. wish i had more to say, but it's 3:30am and, well, Inquiring Minds can and do inquire. thanks for following me on these many meandering and highly unnecessary side quests ♥️

𝟭𝟵𝟵𝟰 🅐🅤 ‣ gameplay \ prev \ next

He started to encounter them more often in the mid-eighties, although his first exposure was much earlier. Mrs. Portnoy had owned one. He took no notice of it on the occasions she invited him inside for iced tea while she pulled crisp bills from her purse only to give him her most beat up nickels and dimes. It was on an illicit visit, after she ran to her car with rollers still intact to run some emergency errand, that he learned what it was. Loudly, a man’s gruff voice boomed into the living room as he examined the china cabinet. He sprung away so fast that he crashed into the cabinet’s open door, rattling the whole thing and its fragile contents. His heart raced and his cheeks burned as he faced the room. Instead, he caught the end of the message: her long-absent husband had an update about their divorce proceedings. Renzo’s whole body deflated as he relaxed. For his trouble, he saw it only fit to walk off with something. Mrs. Portnoy’s porcelain trinkets were useless, so he nicked more of her Valium instead. She kept her pills loose in a candy bowl like his mother did, after all.

Years later, he spent more time in offices or with people who would have such a novelty in their home. Its possibilities became evident to him by happenstance when he called a woman at the number she had printed on a cocktail napkin and tucked into his jeans. A message played after it rang for some time. Her voice was light and clear as she said, “Why don’t you fuck off and die?” His brow knit hard for a few beats, then she concluded, “Joking! That’s to cull the salesmen and losers. Leave a message if you aren’t one.” His message was a burst of laughter. When he met her at a Chateau Marmont function earlier that week, she was a prim redheaded event coordinator. He might have expected that gag from the other number on his list. Later that same night, he met a shaggy-haired makeup artist after she had shouted to compliment his eyelashes over the din of whatever group was playing the Troubadour at the time. Of course, when he moved on to that number, still faintly visible on his forearm just below the snake curled there, her message was brief. Delphie stuck to the basics, so he hung up without saying a word and decided to try Diane again.

Missed calls from Leonor piled up then eventually stopped, and she only left one message for him. He heard that one in real time as if it were a haunting from the ether, not a mechanical recording tethered to the corporeal world. Of course, that was likely how she meant it. Without greeting, she began, ‘I need to talk to you. I know you’re there, so can’t you just listen for a few minutes? What’s wrong with you anyway? Don’t you get tired of being... If I could shake you or just—Ugh!’ Whatever anger she began with evaporated with a loud sigh. Resignation dampened her second attempt as she mused, ‘I don’t understand you. Are you a real person, Renzo? I’m going to wake up in a few days and really not know if I dreamed you up. That’s how I feel. If I was going to torture myself, that’s what I would do. I only want to wrap my arms around you, but there’s nothing to hold. How many of us are there, huh?’ Silence. He turned his head as if she, the ghost from nowhere, would be there to see. Then, her voice rose again to conclude, ‘Call me later, okay? I’m still high right now, but I’ll be sad later and so will you.’

The media presence outside his address ramped up in an abrupt way in the midst of these frequent then ceased calls. He was always incensed when they crowded and hounded, but those days were remarkable. His routine had not changed. To the extent that it had, the change was a shrinking. His world got smaller. Most of it was his own doing; before the attention finally drove him out of Nakawe, he isolated himself at home. The clamor on the street managed to penetrate the foliage and force its way inside the guesthouse. When he cranked up the volume of whatever recorded racket was already shaking the walls from within, some of the vultures became emboldened enough to skulk around in the yard. What did they make of the place? he wondered at one point. Every curtain was drawn. Even in the dead of night, no lights came on. Noise poured out all the while—music looped on end, the same tracks over and over again, guitar riffs and echoing vocals to answer the chorus of cameraman taunts angling to lure him out in a photogenic rage.

He could see them from the bedroom windows, but he spent most of his time laid out on the opposite side of the bed. With his back to them and his mind elsewhere, some forty-eight hours passed before he emerged and came to appreciate the storm that had developed around him. Even then, there wasn’t any anger. He wouldn’t go outside and shout at them. He wouldn’t hurl anything from the upstairs windows—no crashing punctuation on a shouted threat to, ‘Get the hell out of here!’ Instead, he changed the record, made black coffee to accompany a stale pastry, and stretched out on the couch. The conversation pit kept him from view even as a few took advantage of the portal wall that separated the living room from the backyard.

With what lucidity he had, he decided to leave town. The actual getaway would be the hardest part. Where would he go? Canaris felt right. He dreamed of collapsing on the beach and giving himself over to the waves there—all of them, the all-encompassing rushes of euphoria and the enveloping saltwater with its foam and grit. It proved easier said than done. He did force his way out to a waiting car without hitting anyone, and he did wake up in Canaris sometime later, but his attempt to get lost in the surf ended with a terrible, desperate gasping fit. There was nothing soothing about drowning. It was so dissatisfying that he locked himself in a pitch black hotel bathroom until the sensations faded from memory. When he decided to try again, their unwanted recollection prompted him to wander the streets of Canaris’s urban sister city instead.

He eventually passed a record store casting neon light onto the street and, noticing the throng of young people loitering outside, thought of Leonor with unexpected clarity. It was barely a week since their last conversation, but he remembered her like a figure from a past life.

Inside the nearby phone booth, he struggled to dial her number. It wasn’t his memory that failed him so much as the way his fingers refused to land where he meant. Finally, he bested his own clumsy impatience only to grow even more exasperated when the hard won ringing gave way to her best professional tone. Her prerecorded message was basic and straightforward, but he knew better these days than to judge it as somehow representative of anything at all. He had barely uttered a quiet greeting when the phone clicked again and her usual voice piped up, breathless, ‘Oh, finally!’

His stomach dropped into his boots, and he leaned, heavy and weary, against the glass pane of the telephone booth. With his cheek against its cool surface, his eyelids fluttering with exhaustion. ‘I got in some trouble,’ she told him. He swallowed hard but said nothing. ‘Nothing permanent. Never mind. I just … Are you home? Can I come by?’

While she put forth those tentative questions, he was lowering himself to the ground with all the care of a glass-boned geriatric and fumbling around his pockets for a cigarette. The pack was empty when he grasped it. Worse than bad news, that was a bad sign. Leonor listened to the muffled sounds of movement, silent and waiting, until he gave up and set to flickering his lighter on and off instead. ‘I’m not home,’ he said. ‘I’m not going back home.’

‘Today?’

‘Period.’

More silence. He watched the flame grow and whisper away with each motion of his thumb. As she spoke, he kept his gaze trained on it.

‘You’re leaving? Is that it?’

There was nothing accusatory in her tone. If anything, she sounded to be on the verge of tears. That telltale sound pricked at something in him. She was waiting for a response. With a huff, he put away the lighter so as to press more of his exposed skin against the cool glass. To any passerby, it must have appeared strange, like some unseen force had shoved him into the booth and refused to let up. His expression remained placid. Even as he responded, knowing how she would receive it, his face was neutral, slack even.

‘I was going to tell you��drop by your place, maybe.’ Was that true? He didn’t know. It had crossed his mind, at least, so it wasn’t a lie. ‘I’m leaving Canaris in two days. Going straight to the airport..’

Her soft “Oh,” may as well have been a hiccup.

There was nothing left to say. He might have, in a better state, apologized for the surprise or proffered his rationale as a sign of goodwill. Tacking the other way, he knew she would have appreciated a subtle redirect to other things—why she was calling, whether she was okay, if she wanted to hop on a jet to Canaris for the night. Instead, the silence went on, although it distinctly didn’t drag. They were in a limbo of sorts where time didn’t exist. He had been floating for days. With just the subdued sound of her voice, it was as if she had simply waded out to join him. Indeed, he couldn’t imagine what she was doing on her end of the line—the specifics, whether she was in her bed or, maybe, had carried the phone out to her balcony. As long as he didn’t hear the beginnings of a caustic meltdown, they stayed temple to temple, watching black clouds drift along a black sky.

He shifted himself, making noise to signal he was listening. She did the same.

‘Will you …’ There was more noise, more movement—“I’m still here, don’t go!” the clattering and faint rustling said—and then another heavy sigh. She spat out her next question as if afraid it would lodge in her throat. Her tone was nakedly forthright or urgent or both as she asked, ‘Will you let me come with you?’

Now, troubled waters imperiled their floating. What could he say to that? His instinct was to bark, “No!” with all the impetuous exuberance of a child being forced to share. Instead, or because of that, he laughed. It was the same response in effect. If his reaction bothered her, she didn’t launch into a tirade or lash out. Any tears failed to amplify. She didn’t protest or interrupt to clarify and press her case. She didn’t say anything at all, but she also didn’t hang up. That must have become conspicuous, for his laughter dried up as soon as he acknowledged that she was just sitting there, silent except for her soft breaths, waiting for him to take her seriously. Quietened, he took his time readjusting and wrestling with the unwieldy cord of the telephone. His body was heavy, his skin felt clammy and tacky like cling film, and a familiar throbbing in his head surfaced as the fit of laughter left dull, unwelcome sobriety in its wake.

‘What are you talking about?’ he moaned. ‘Don’t you know what I’m saying?’

She couldn’t, he feared. If she did, wouldn’t she be on the edge of hysteria, if not plunging headfirst into it? She couldn’t handle being unable to get him on the line for a few days, so how would she fare if he was gone—hours and flights away, starting over beyond reach, awash in new people and new experiences, engulfed by another world unopened to her? She wouldn’t allow it. Or, there would be kicking and screaming. He might leave, but it would be with scabs due to scar. Still, this is what he was promising. “Leaving” was not about any destination; there was no afterward or subsequence to elaborate, to plan, to suggest as a hazy someday rendezvous. It was the final goodbye by another name or, at best, the preamble to it.

“Do it with your eyes wide open,” she had once asked while they lay together in the backyard he no longer considered his, if he ever had. The tenderness touched him. Even in the moment, he was struck by her maturity and her girlishness. They were inextricable contradictions. Like the horizon was noteworthy as a meeting place, so, too, were the moments when her age meant something to him. It was brave of her to feel herself in the palm of his hand—to feel such intimate fear of being dropped or crushed or tossed out like a pesky houseguest—and to nonetheless face the necessity that it be named. ‘See? I can say it,’ she had seemed to announce, triumphant in a spiritless way. Only, she didn’t say it. It was, then and now, all euphemistic. It was a bridge built by planks of mutual understanding, beset by rotting spots where fear took hold, swaying and creaking. It was impossible to cross unless your eyes were squeezed tight.

He realized as she did ultimately resort to explaining herself that she knew all too well what he was saying. In the time apart, when he left her dangling with no notice, she must have exhausted the possibilities in her own mind. It wasn’t a far-fetched or unlikely scenario. He could very plausibly have ignored her because he was busy executing his big escape from Uspana with single-minded focus. If he left the pills alone and reached for the powders, it was the kind of leap he could make with bewildering ease. That he was lost at sea within himself or rotting away unseen were options, too, but it wasn’t like her to sprout such concerns. Recent events might have been too fresh. Renzo was a fool in her mind, but he wasn’t stupid. Better yet, she was too peripheral in those scenarios; they weren’t tragedies she could enter and possess. So, she knew how he had landed in the country. Was it such a stretch to conclude his time there was always destined to be brief—just long enough to be a reprieve and just short enough to stay sweet? It wasn’t sweet anymore. She was there when it soured. She saw it with her own eyes and had tasted herself how terrible it could get. Something soured for him on the spot, and he could recall through the haze of past panic how that moment, the way he had looked through her as though she ceased to exist, had alarmed her most of all.

They shared a peculiar strain of self-absorption, but it was a commonality that had made them compatible. She wouldn’t credit herself with souring anything, although she could acknowledge that she wasn’t sweet enough to avoid being a burden in her own way. That was what he told her most recently, in other words on another telephone call, when he insisted he couldn't take care of her. He wouldn’t. Wants and needs alike, they were hers to manage. He didn’t need her apologies or her concern, her affection or her support. What he needed was space—lots of it, urgently, firm and definite. ‘Dig a fucking hole and put me in it,’ he had begged. She should have known from that choice of metaphor, but there it was—if she buried him, the story became one of mourning and waiting cast as widowhood. That wasn’t the end. It paused until he rose from the dead, for her sake and by her demand.

To him, that demand of his own was an act of preservation, but she must have heard only rejection. They had this conversation before his world shrunk. It was, in retrospect, a sign of care that he had called her to tell her these things before he took his big plunge into absence. She didn’t bristle at the idea that she must take care of herself. What made her cry was the insistence that she couldn’t join him on this nosedive into a new low. There would be no mourning, no widowhood, no curling around each other like roots under the weight of suffocating dirt. The phone had clicked abruptly on her end, but he only felt grateful that she spared him the live audio of her heart breaking. In truth, it hadn’t felt like a moment of finality to him. It could have been an improvised interlude from the start, but she had no patience to spare when asked for it.

Renzo’s eyes were closed, and he didn’t interrupt her stream of quick, low murmuring until he had repositioned himself yet again, wedged in an awkward corner where his cheek and forehead touched the glass with the receiver tucked in against his neck. When he spoke, it was to admit, ‘I missed all of that, Nora. Say it again.’

That was fine, he figured. It would give her a moment to edit herself—to take back what she regretted conceding, emphasize what she truly meant, polish the parts that she hoped would be persuasive. He wanted to listen to her, to really understand, even if he felt the laughter bubbling up inside. It was hard to picture what she could say that would make it less absurd. He was trying to give her a purposeful if unceremonious goodbye, and she was turning it down as though it was negotiable. Yet, that was her whole point, he came to accept, slowly but then all at once, as his mind caught up with her words.

‘I can’t be here anymore,’ she was saying. ‘What’s left for me? Maybe there was something—before, at first—but all I could do was ruin it. Born on a bad day.’ Here, she paused to chuckle. Renzo wanted to smile, not at the invocation of stars and fate so much as her small, wry acknowledgment that he would find it silly. Hers were silly convictions, but it was endearing in its unexpectedness. She was sensible, except for when she wasn’t. She was logical, blunt, inclined to pragmatism, except for when she wasn’t. She wasn’t foolish, except for when she was.

‘It’s terrible,’ she continued. ‘I feel terrible. I only feel good when I’m with you, and now … I don’t even want to feel good. I just don’t want to feel alone. I can’t. Don’t you feel the same way?

That was tricky. He let his head loll, pressing against the receiver.

‘I want to be alone,’ he retorted.

‘No … You don’t. Be honest. Don’t you want me there?’

He shook his head but could hear himself losing the argument. ‘It’s not good for us, Nora,’ he was saying. The whining lilt of it bothered him. He groaned, ‘Of course I fucking want you here, but we don’t get what we want. It’s not time for make-believe, okay? It’s not the time.’

She snapped, fast and adamant, ‘I know! I mean it, Renzo. Let me come with you. Can’t I start over, too? Am I allowed? I want to do it with you. If you don’t want me, fine, but don’t try to make this decision for me. Just say yes, or … .’

He waited, but she wouldn’t continue. ‘Or what?’

‘Say “yes” or just admit that you don’t love me like I love you.’

There it was. He sighed, grumbling, ‘I don’t want to talk about that.’

Now, she laughed. ‘That’s why it’s beautiful. We don’t have to. Yes or no, that’s all. Don’t think. Just tell me what to do.’

He pulled away from the glass altogether and dropped his head down between his knees. The coolness wasn’t soothing anymore, and he wanted to pretend, with the darkness and pressure on his head, that he was somewhere else. He wasn’t in a phone booth in Canaris, sitting on the grimy floor while passersby peered at him and wondered why he looked familiar. He wasn’t in the back room of The Den either. That was where he would otherwise be, laid out on the couch, rubbing chalky fingers cast in red light down his cheeks, across his lips, all along the rust flavored crevices of his gums as the noise of partying filtered, muted, through the walls. He couldn’t be alone like that anymore. He wasn’t at Leonor’s place either. There, he would be on her couch in front of massive windows big enough to capture the horizon but set far enough away to deprive her neighbors of any special views. Where he was in that moment was on an airplane, bound for New York, with a freshly lit cigarette in his hand. His other hand wasn’t free, though, because instead of grasping hard at a fistful of his own flat, unwashed hair, it was pinned to the armrest, intertwined with hers.

At this fantasy, he wanted to scream. It would have been a primal, cracking, unsustainable kind of shouting—spewing up frustration but ultimately toothless. He let himself mutter a low, ‘Goddammit,’ instead, which he knew she would be straining to hear. Now, she had done it. She had him in a hold where the upper hand was hers. Was it in the crook of her slender arm? Better yet, was it where her strong, heated thighs replaced the half-hearted squeeze of his own cold hands against his head? She wouldn’t smell like hairspray and spandex and baby powder. She would smell like herself—warm spices and sex, something sweet like vanilla but earthier, rich and enveloping, pure unadulterated comfort. He could imagine the look on her face, too, while she waited for him to relax into capitulation.

And, raising his head, he did. ‘If it’s what you want, but I’m not missing that fucking flight.’

Leonor laughed—perhaps with relief, perhaps at the empty threat, perhaps because she hadn’t truly expected to get her way. They fell quiet after that. For their own reflective reasons, they remained that way without issue until, finally, the public telephone began to demand additional coins he didn’t have to feed it.

TRANSCRIPT:

(LEONOR V.O.) I need to talk to you. I know you’re there, so can’t you just listen for a few minutes? What’s wrong with you anyway? Don’t you ever get tired of being so … If I could shake you or just—Ugh! [Leonor huffs]

(LEONOR V.O.)I don’t understand you. Are you a real person, Renzo? I’m going to wake up in a few days and really not know if I dreamed you up.

(LEONOR V.O.)That’s how I feel. If I was going to torture myself, that’s what I would do. I only want to wrap my arms around you, but there’s nothing to hold. How many of us are there, huh?

(LEONOR V.O.)Call me back, okay? I’m still high right now, but I’ll be sad later and so will you.

LEONOR | —I got in some trouble. Nothing permanent. Never mind. I just … Are you home? Can I come by?

RENZO | I’m not home. I’m not going back home. LEONOR | Today? RENZO | Period.

LEONOR | … You’re leaving? Is that it?

RENZO | I was going to tell you—drop by your place. I’m leaving Canaris in two days. Going straight to the airport.

LEONOR | Oh.

LEONOR | Will you … Will you let me come with you?

RENZO | What are you talking about? Do you know what I’m saying? [Leonor talking indistinctly]

RENZO | I missed all of that, Nora. Say it again. LEONOR | I can’t be here anymore. What’s left for me? Maybe there was something—before, at first—but all I could do was ruin it. Born on a bad day. [Chuckles]

LEONOR | It’s terrible, actually. I feel terrible. I only feel good when I’m with you, and now … I don’t even want to feel good. I just don’t want to feel alone. I can’t.

LEONOR | Don’t you feel the same way? RENZO | I want to be alone. LEONOR | No … You don’t. Be honest. Don’t you want me there? RENZO | It’s not good for us, Nora.

RENZO | Of course I fucking want you here, but we don’t get what we want. It’s not time for make-believe, okay? It’s not the time. LEONOR | I know! I mean it, Renzo. Let me come with you. Can’t I start over, too? Am I allowed? I want to do it with you. If you don’t want me, fine, but don’t try to make this decision for me. Just say yes, or … RENZO | Or what?

LEONOR | Say “yes” or admit that you don't love me like I love you. RENZO | I don't want to talk about that. LEONOR | That's why it's so beautiful. We don't have to. Yes or no, that's all. Don't think. Just tell me what to do.

RENZO | Goddammit.

RENZO | If it’s what you want, but I’m not missing that fucking flight.

#reblog #cw drugs #keep reading

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