The curtains had been pulled across in a desperate, somewhat pointless
attempt to make the room seem less grubby. The fading settee did nothing to
give the place a professional air. For the fourth time that day Elizabeth
Flynn wondered what she was really going to do when the man arrived back.
She fiddled idly with the clip on the lid of her pen, brought it up to her
mouth and bit on it, letting her teeth click against the metal. Dust hung
in the air making the air she breathed seem heavy and old. She attempted to
run things through her head, although her mind felt clogged in the heat and
the stuffiness of the place. She shut her eyes. Put things in lists her
grandmother had said, put things in lists and sort things out in your head
before you go diving in. Lists.
I am in the house of a man I don't know anything about other than that he is a writer He has gone out to buy something. First impressions of said man: I do not trust him. I do not trust him because when he opened the door he looked very ill and his eyes twitched slightly in the sunlight as though he hadn't been out for too long and when he talked his voice was groggy and confused. He was wearing a battered dressing gown. I have run out of cigarettes.
Somebody gave a polite little cough. She snapped her eyes open. The aforementioned man in question was standing in front of the sofa she was sitting on with his head tipped sideways to look at her face. His short untidy blonde hair hung down a little over his shoulders. He smiled, only momentarily, a little flicker on his face, which disappeared almost instantly. His eyes stayed the same, unreadable. Not exactly blank or unfriendly, just unreadable. Either he was very good at hiding or really wasn't feeling very much at all. She sniffed embarrassedly and pushed her hair back from her face with one hand. "Sorry it took so long," he said, "have to go a long way to get my things," again the flickering smile. She would have said that the shops were only a few miles down the road, but she didn't because her mind had been sent reeling. So she just gave a nervous little grin and a laugh that sounded incredibly false in the still, dense air. He turned his back on her and strode out into the kitchen, where plastic bags rustled and cupboards slammed. He stuck his head round the door again. "Want a drink?" She attempted to compose herself. "If you would." She did her best to smile intelligently. "Do you have lemonade?" A little voice in the back of her mind scolded her for asking for lemonade. Who has lemonade at thirty-four years old? The smile bolted across his face again. "'Course."
He returned with two glasses, one apparently contained orange juice. He handed her the other, placed his own down on the table and flung himself down onto a chair. "You wanted to talk to me Miss?" "Mrs...actually. Mrs Flynn. Yes, I wanted to interview you." A momentary expression of worry creased his forehead, but was gone as quickly as it came. "Oh?" "About yourself and your writing. I suppose, anything really. You know the score." His eyes seemed unable to settle in one position, dancing around the room, never looking her in the eyes. He glanced down, pushed his sleeve back to check his watch, which wasn't there. "Uhm," he said, and reached forward to pick up said watch from the coffee table in front of him. It was five past four.
My very first SW fanfic. Please R&R because I have horrible writers block and lack of motivation sometimes tears
k-chan
I am in the house of a man I don't know anything about other than that he is a writer He has gone out to buy something. First impressions of said man: I do not trust him. I do not trust him because when he opened the door he looked very ill and his eyes twitched slightly in the sunlight as though he hadn't been out for too long and when he talked his voice was groggy and confused. He was wearing a battered dressing gown. I have run out of cigarettes.
Somebody gave a polite little cough. She snapped her eyes open. The aforementioned man in question was standing in front of the sofa she was sitting on with his head tipped sideways to look at her face. His short untidy blonde hair hung down a little over his shoulders. He smiled, only momentarily, a little flicker on his face, which disappeared almost instantly. His eyes stayed the same, unreadable. Not exactly blank or unfriendly, just unreadable. Either he was very good at hiding or really wasn't feeling very much at all. She sniffed embarrassedly and pushed her hair back from her face with one hand. "Sorry it took so long," he said, "have to go a long way to get my things," again the flickering smile. She would have said that the shops were only a few miles down the road, but she didn't because her mind had been sent reeling. So she just gave a nervous little grin and a laugh that sounded incredibly false in the still, dense air. He turned his back on her and strode out into the kitchen, where plastic bags rustled and cupboards slammed. He stuck his head round the door again. "Want a drink?" She attempted to compose herself. "If you would." She did her best to smile intelligently. "Do you have lemonade?" A little voice in the back of her mind scolded her for asking for lemonade. Who has lemonade at thirty-four years old? The smile bolted across his face again. "'Course."
He returned with two glasses, one apparently contained orange juice. He handed her the other, placed his own down on the table and flung himself down onto a chair. "You wanted to talk to me Miss?" "Mrs...actually. Mrs Flynn. Yes, I wanted to interview you." A momentary expression of worry creased his forehead, but was gone as quickly as it came. "Oh?" "About yourself and your writing. I suppose, anything really. You know the score." His eyes seemed unable to settle in one position, dancing around the room, never looking her in the eyes. He glanced down, pushed his sleeve back to check his watch, which wasn't there. "Uhm," he said, and reached forward to pick up said watch from the coffee table in front of him. It was five past four.
My very first SW fanfic. Please R&R because I have horrible writers block and lack of motivation sometimes tears
k-chan