[He looks so goooood, I love his casting. I'm gonna need a week to recover from yesterday lol.]
"Two days in a row."
No judgement, at least in tone, but it comes with a purse of her lips. She doesn't want to stare him down across the room, and her hands threaten to drift back to her hips, so she busies herself instead. She tidies things on their table and straightens the shelves, busy until she can't be anymore.
She know she could offer to take those jobs too –– there's nothing stopping her from hefting bodies, just as there isn't anything stopping her from picking through trash bags for reusables or processing cattle. The pay would be better than what she usually takes, or at least more consistent. But the only job she likes is in early fall, when there's seven-day shifts in the cranberry bogs on the south end of Cape Cod. It's an hour-long FEDRA shuttle each way, once a week. She never sleeps well in those fenced-in camping sites, the pay isn't great, she hates being away from home, but it's time out. It's fresh air. It doesn't reek like the city.
Truth is, she'd just rather risk arrest or execution to do something she enjoys, and what she enjoys is smuggling. If they can die any day, she'd rather be shot in the head making a deal, because the only thing more terrifying than death is losing what independence she has. Losing a hand to a rusting thresher or getting held by some desperate asshole who won't take no for an answer at the rations desk isn't on her terms, and her terms pay better than FEDRA's. When it pays, anyway.
Maybe in another week, she'll try convincing Joel of it again. If they invest all their time in deals, maybe they can come out on top. Make counting cards a thing of the past.
There's nothing left to tidy because it never gets too out of order. She watches him, the slice of him she can see through the bathroom doorway.
"Is that a no to drinking?" she asks. You're going to hate it worse hung-over.
💕💕💕💕
"Two days in a row."
No judgement, at least in tone, but it comes with a purse of her lips. She doesn't want to stare him down across the room, and her hands threaten to drift back to her hips, so she busies herself instead. She tidies things on their table and straightens the shelves, busy until she can't be anymore.
She know she could offer to take those jobs too –– there's nothing stopping her from hefting bodies, just as there isn't anything stopping her from picking through trash bags for reusables or processing cattle. The pay would be better than what she usually takes, or at least more consistent. But the only job she likes is in early fall, when there's seven-day shifts in the cranberry bogs on the south end of Cape Cod. It's an hour-long FEDRA shuttle each way, once a week. She never sleeps well in those fenced-in camping sites, the pay isn't great, she hates being away from home, but it's time out. It's fresh air. It doesn't reek like the city.
Truth is, she'd just rather risk arrest or execution to do something she enjoys, and what she enjoys is smuggling. If they can die any day, she'd rather be shot in the head making a deal, because the only thing more terrifying than death is losing what independence she has. Losing a hand to a rusting thresher or getting held by some desperate asshole who won't take no for an answer at the rations desk isn't on her terms, and her terms pay better than FEDRA's. When it pays, anyway.
Maybe in another week, she'll try convincing Joel of it again. If they invest all their time in deals, maybe they can come out on top. Make counting cards a thing of the past.
There's nothing left to tidy because it never gets too out of order. She watches him, the slice of him she can see through the bathroom doorway.
"Is that a no to drinking?" she asks. You're going to hate it worse hung-over.