#theyre kinda doomed yuri if you squint

[365partygrl]

he doesn't even notice the garment around her shoulders and suddenly she feels very silly for thinking too much about it. makes a face at his comment, doe eyes rolling before sinking to the floor beneath them. ‟ i'm sure death would be much more fun if you got to experience somewhat of an afterlife. sometimes i wish i went to hell instead of - ... whatever this is that i'm doing. ” can't help but look over her shoulder, face contorting in small panic in case someone else heard her. religious guilt still eats her alive as a ghost and abby just thinks that's really bogus. and she was used to his dry humor but lacks the social skills to acknowledge it. hands sink into the pockets of the jacket, resuming her position on the sofa. ‟ my day was alright. did you know the faucet in the bathroom is leaking? ” pulls her knees to her chest. ‟ music? ” she's caught a little off guard by the question. tries to think. she hasn't heard much music recently. lips twitch as she chews at the inside of her cheek. ‟ i wasn't allowed to listen to much music. my dad didn't really like it. unless it was gospel or, like, anything that would sound good from a choir. but then in like... oh, when was it? ” she stares into the empty air, trying to think of the year but everything feels sort of fuzzy. ‟ i can't remember. had to have been early 90s or something. i snuck into a cocteau twins show. was the first time and last time i did anything like that. someone else was playing too that night. may.... minnie... maddy star? somethin' like that. i liked that. it was cool. ”

      the comfort of routine had never been something khalil welcomed. chalk it up to his sagittarius moon, or venus, or whatever, but it made him itch, the same kind of stirring that would occur when sat atop a hot bed of coals or a mountain of red ants — all to say that he doesn't quite like it. regardless of earlier sentiments, he doesn't mind the habit that is abby. mid-shift ( this current phase of his life is being the front desk guy at a tiny record store ) thoughts are engulfed by her, asking himself questions that were wildly impractical to ponder considering her ghastly state. is she okay ? is she bored ? what kind of music does she like ... or did she like ? how did she die ? is she ever going to leave ? if i get chinese takeout tonight, is she able to eat it ? — they're virtually incessant until he walks through the front door, whipping that torn, sun-bleached jansport onto the couch before nonchalantly responding to her greetings. " yeah. 's okay. kinda slow — would much rather be dead than have to do this shit to pay rent. " he hoped that she was used to his humor by now. " you ? " a pause, followed by shuffling. " hey, what kind of music d'you like ? "