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JON BERNTHAL as Julian Kaye AMERICAN GIGOLO (2022) 01x06

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https://www.instagram.com/p/B-8-j0phkSm/

ARTxLIT: Muriel Rukeyser x William-Adolphe Bouguereau

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Rewatching the Walking Dead. Again 😍

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There’s no doubt the man before her has caught her attention, hell anything new under the sun around here would. But he was broad, proud even—had an essence about him that carried strength. He looked tired, sure, must’ve been driving for most of the day, if not longer. Spent and weariness that was worn in deep in his bones just by the look of him. This was a men who had been dealt a shitty hand and fought on anyways. It was also sort of unfortunately Eloise’s type—the sad, quiet sorts that don’t claim much attention. They don’t need no fixing though, not that she has any time or energy to give it. But just the kind of guy that understands that life ain’t always going to give a hand and has worked hard for his keep. And a bit of the sad stuff just adds character, don’t it? Don’t have to dwell on it, but still feel it when it comes around. But then again, who has the time or energy for that either?

She smiled, huffing a small bit of laughter. “Can I get you anything to drink, stranger? Everything on tap is half off ‘til 10. Or we got—y’know whiskey, rum, vodka, any of the sort. Pick your poison.”

The rest of the bar didn’t seem to pay much mind to the stranger that made their way into their neck of the woods and suppose no one can blame them with the Wolverines playing on one television and ice hockey on the other. Their attention is either on the bad calls or the beer in their hands, far too busy to check out every straggler that makes their way through Michigan, especially all the way over here. A part of her wonders where he’s headed, as most are usually on their way across the border or continuing on to Chicago or Detroit. No one thinks of landing here, which is why she sort of likes it. It’s like a well known secret in a way. A secret with no sort of benefit but a charm nonetheless.

“So, uh, ya just passing through?”

Small towns don’t bring much change. It’s the same folks that have known you from birth to holding your own but still hold onto a certain nostalgia of what once was. Especially people. This sort of town was a relic more than most. A museum of memories and preserved community. Saying things like “your mother was a real nice lady” or “I remember when you used to run down the hall in overalls and pigtails”. It helps, seemingly. Stay close and connected to both those gone and those left behind.

It seemed like one of those nights again. Same crowd, a dozen or so, that make it part of their routine to drop on by to Better Days—perhaps to live a little bit of nostalgia once again or just to simply feel better about themselves. The bar itself was old, much like everything else in this town—with very little renovations from when her father once ran it. Same wood with its nail dents and water lines, and same tile beneath that is still holding everything above. Same lights with lamps and lanterns littered throughout to display some sort of homey sense of ambience—plus no one likes fluorescents a few shots in. And the same blonde bartender, drying glasses and poking jokes with people she’s known her entire life.

Despite the fair facade of a good time, as she does indeed enjoy her job and the people it drives in and out—all she can think about is her son. Cute as a button, curious as can be and stubborn than heck, JJ le Roux is a dime a dozen that keeps Eloise on her toes. When she works nights, she stays at the neighbor’s house, Sunny, who has twelve grandchildren and an old, lazy brown lab named Rocky that JJ adores. He begs for a dog everytime morning when El comes to pick him up. She can’t help but laugh as she remembers herself doing the same damn thing as a kid when her father worked nights. Sunny is as close as family as they can get.

JJ is in a bit of Mad Libs phase as of late, calling her up a few hours ago asking for an adverb and name of a city, and waiting for the finished product is the only thing she’s been wondering about tonight.

That is until an unfamiliar face into her bar, turning only a few heads, but who mainly go back to their normal conversations and drinks. The music is low, but enough to hear something folksy and older, probably Fleetwood Mac. Her gaze perks at the open door as someone tall, dark and rugged walks down the line toward the counter. A passerby maybe?

“Hey, El. Be a doll and get me another shot of the good stuff, would ya? And don’t forget the extra lime.”

“When do I ever forget, Billy?” She hums with a soft laugh, already reaching for the bottle of his known choosing and pouring the glass of fine whiskey. Though her attention is elsewhere, she manages a clean pour, tossing two limes.

Waiting for the stranger to finally take a seat, blonde wipes her hands on the rag thrown on her shoulder. “Evening. What’re we drinking tonight?”

@writingsinashes

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The thing about normal is that it’s merely an environment of familiarity. A structure so perfectly inscribed and performed from its origin that there’s no deciphering way to see otherwise. And for Eloise, it was exactly that. Always the two of them, but often felt so singular with the habit of keeping herself occupied and entertained. David, her father, was attentive, precise and fair—all what a good father should be, according to the research and evidence provided in their sanctuary. From sports, history and movies, David knew it all and was a well of information of what once was and a vision of what might be. In her eyes, sheltered and benign, what more could a young, adolescent want. Every question answered, every query pondered. They had a system that worked, even in their solitude.

Trotting up the stairs, book to her chest, the young blonde seemed concerned, and even a bit ashamed by her father’s worry. “I was only in the library. Lost track of time, I guess.” Her walk slowed, but still fast enough to be brisk, like a puppy with its tail between its legs. “Not like I can go anywhere…” She muttered softly under her breath. Despite the sea of knowledge at their fingertips, they were rather limited in a means of community or exploration. Where many others had neighborhoods, schools, and friends, they simply have—this.

So, quickening her pace until she finally made it to the top of the stairs. “See? Right here. All four appendages.” She smiles, attempting her best ‘good daughter’ routine. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

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Since the moment he had beheld Peter Weyland, David had wanted him dead. Not because he was cruel, arrogant and ignorant in his attitude to David. Had Weyland been the most attentive, reverent and encouraging father figure possible, David would still have despised him. Because Weyland, a fortiriori of being human, was unworthy to have created him.

David was going to be a better father to his children. He was going to take the art of creation even further - he was going to take it way too far. But it was going to require time.

‘Eloise.’ David appeared on the threshold of the basalt black citadel, at the top of its colossal staircase rising like a vertebrated spine of the planet itself, its sheer size a testament to the hubris of those who had once built it before David had wiped them out. A small figure was climbing the stairs, still near the bottom, though not far enough that David’s piercing gaze could not meet hers. The distinct furrowing of the brow that indicated disappointment. ‘Where have you been? I was worried.’ He fabricated a conciliatory smile as she approached, but in his eyes there was merely a challenge. She would tell him where she had been. He would find out anyway if she didn’t.

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Currently Playing at Better Days

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Drafts from the past. Some turned into something else, others left unfinished. 🍊

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oh my god, they were roommates  … sentence starters

also included some aimed at cohabitating couples

“Did we leave the stove on?”

“Did you remember to unplug that?”

“Did you know you talk in your sleep?”

“Do you wanna just order pizza tonight?”

“You’re slowing down the internet, again.”

“I washed dishes last night. It’s your turn.”

“Seriously? You ate them all? Without me?”

“Do you have to have your music that loud?”

“Oh, don’t give me that! It had my name on it!”

“Scootch over, you’re hogging the whole couch.”

“You made dinner? Thanks, it smells really good.“

“Touch my chips and you’re gonna meet the lord.”

“My Netflix password, I get to decide what we watch.”

“If you touch that thermostat one more time, I swear…”

“Oh, yeah, light’s been burnt out for, like, a week, now.”

“Put down the broom and go to bed, you’re exhausted.”

“I just pulled all these out of the couch. Care to explain?”

“I swear, this place is haunted. The lights keep flickering.”

“No. You can’t solve every household issue with duct-tape.”

“Was that the sound of a pipe bursting? Please, tell me no.”

“You can’t just hoard (trash item). You’re like a dragon of garbage.”

“Well, I would’ve liked to sleep, but SOMEONE hogged the bed last night.”

“Our neighbors keep eyeing our little garden. I think they’re jealous. Good.”

“So, don’t panic, but you know how they say you shouldn’t microwave metal…?”

“Excuse you, you don’t need a pillow. I’m right here, and perfectly pillow-shaped!”

“Did you really write ‘REDRUM’ on the mirror? You almost gave me a heart attack!”

“Hey, I know you’ve had a rough day, so I made a quick stop and picked up your favorite snack.”

“Sorry I didn’t warn you that I sleepwalk. Didn’t mean to become your sleep paralysis demon.”

“Yeah, I’d love to do the yardwork… if it could stop snowing/raining/storming for more than ten seconds.”

“I was going to throw out the milk, but it’s been in there so long, it gained sentience and I’m scared to get near it.”

“Since things keep breaking, I think we have a household ghost. And I’m gonna name him Steve. Steve, you’re a dick.”

“Apparently, you can duct tape a person to a wall. We have duct tape. We have a wall. Are you seeing where I’m going with this?”

“Somewhere in this house, there’s a smoke alarm low on batteries. And it’s taunting me with its beeps, because it knows I can’t figure out which one it is.”

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Listen, sometimes a ship is less about wanting them to kiss or have sex or whatever, and more about needing them to be so endlessly intertwined and connected to the point where they might as well be one creature.

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If you see this you’re legally obligated to reblog and tag with the book you’re currently reading

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source unknown

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Hold on, don't let go...

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avani rai