They're dinged up, creaky dresser Joel restored several years ago, crammed in the corner of their drab bedroom, squeaks on its brackets as Joel jiggles the drawer open. At the same time, he throws a quick dubious glance at Tess out in the kitchen scraping their dinner out into a saucepan.
"Show?" he echoes. Followed by an equally dubious snort to himself under his breath. A show. Like a musical? Or some classy stage thing that's way out of Joel's scope of what he deemed 'entertaining' back in the day? Yeah, right.
He digs through his sloppily folded clothes. A scraggy blue t-shirt, faded and washed out with time, is pulled out first, followed by a pair of even scraggier grey sweatpants. He shoves the squeaky drawer shut and tugs the pants on first and reemerges from the bedroom with shirt in hand.
"A movie, not a show," he corrects her. "Somethin' like..." He threads one arm into his shirt, followed by the other, and then pauses in thought, thumbs hooked into the collar of his shirt ready to be tugged over his head. "I dunno. Con Air. Or Face/Off. Somethin' like that." Because that's the kind of high-brow, brainless entertainment that enthralled Joel back in the day.
Over his head his shirt goes and he yanks it down over his bare chest, adding in a little dismissive mutter that borders on mocking, "Pfft, 'a show'."
no subject
"Show?" he echoes. Followed by an equally dubious snort to himself under his breath. A show. Like a musical? Or some classy stage thing that's way out of Joel's scope of what he deemed 'entertaining' back in the day? Yeah, right.
He digs through his sloppily folded clothes. A scraggy blue t-shirt, faded and washed out with time, is pulled out first, followed by a pair of even scraggier grey sweatpants. He shoves the squeaky drawer shut and tugs the pants on first and reemerges from the bedroom with shirt in hand.
"A movie, not a show," he corrects her. "Somethin' like..." He threads one arm into his shirt, followed by the other, and then pauses in thought, thumbs hooked into the collar of his shirt ready to be tugged over his head. "I dunno. Con Air. Or Face/Off. Somethin' like that." Because that's the kind of high-brow, brainless entertainment that enthralled Joel back in the day.
Over his head his shirt goes and he yanks it down over his bare chest, adding in a little dismissive mutter that borders on mocking, "Pfft, 'a show'."