a christmas dinner
Paul’s door leads, as ever, to the houseboat. (A much improved houseboat in terms of cleanliness, we might add.) It opens out onto the living room, which is no longer a refugee camp for loose papers, but actually a living room. The coffee table at the center has a couple of rolls of wrapping paper on one side, and a few books on the other. The ashtrays and glasses that used to litter the surface are nowhere in sight.
There’s also a lamp on, which Paul neatly steps around as he makes his way across the room.
“So, um. It’s about a ten-minute drive from here,” he says, drawing a set of keys from his jacket pocket, and grabbing an umbrella from a stand by the front door (better safe than sorry – the rain’s been a bit on and off throughout the day).
“And by ten, I am considering traffic. Which shouldn’t be too big of an inconvenience.”
There’s also a lamp on, which Paul neatly steps around as he makes his way across the room.
“So, um. It’s about a ten-minute drive from here,” he says, drawing a set of keys from his jacket pocket, and grabbing an umbrella from a stand by the front door (better safe than sorry – the rain’s been a bit on and off throughout the day).
“And by ten, I am considering traffic. Which shouldn’t be too big of an inconvenience.”
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Artemis has always been partial to a good story.
"Taking something so disjointed and setting it all in a way that it makes sense, that everything flows..."
--is not too far from healing and the thought makes her pause very slightly when she reaches for her water glass.
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(The pause, he catches - he's trained to see things like that, after all - but refrains from asking after it.)
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"Speaking as somebody who's tried a lot of gigs, I believe you."
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"They hate me, sort of, but I bet they'd love you."
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Not that I don't think I'm completely loveable, but..."
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Smiling a little sheepishly, he rubs the back of his neck with his fork-less hand.
"In as few words as possible, and also - possibly the least well thought-through: you're one of the best people I know. If I thought I could go on without sounding like a suck-up, I would, really."
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"Oh, is that all."
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And he is not turning red at all, what are you talking about.
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My, the pasta is fascinating to look at.
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"Glad you agree."
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"I'd think most people would prefer you sound the way you are," she murmurs.
"Although I'm sure you were adorable in fifth grade."
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"Well, I didn't steal anyone's lunch money."
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"Just because you'd last longer than I would ..."
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"Not without some seriously warm clothes, at least."
She has a coat made from yak; just ask her cousins!
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He looks down, and plucks at his jacket.
"-- an ensemble something like this, multiplied by two in thickness."
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"A few hours would probably be a generous estimate, then."
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He scowls, as if to prove his point.
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