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When Your Past Catches Up to His Future
May. 26th, 2015 02:01 pmThis was a chalenge where the story needed to deal with Brian and Gus
When Your Past Catches Up to His Future
New York and Toronto_2012
It was late night still, not yet early morning, not yet 3am when they arrived home, a Friday night dance club kind of tired, taking the express elevator to the thirty-fifth floor. They could have taken the regular elevator, it was waiting for them with open doors, but they chose to wait, realizing that in their year and a half of using the express, they’d become spoiled, felt entitled and they were fine with that. Living in Manhattan, on Wall Street, in the Philippe Starck building, could do that to a person. And they were just fine with it.
The answering machine’s red light blinked in the dimness of nighttime light as they made their way into the living room. Brian instructed, “Messages,” listening as the familiar feminine voice filled the otherwise quiet space telling him that there were two, both from Lindsay Peterson, one left at 8pm, the other at 11:30pm. “Play.” He hovered over the machine, absently tapping a pencil, the eraser-soft rhythm of tap…tap tap -- tap…tap tap on the tabletop’s glass reflecting his anxiousness.
Already on his way down the hallway, Justin paused and, leaning against the wall, only half-seen in the nearly dark, he waited too.
( Read more... )
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When Your Past Catches Up to His Future
New York and Toronto_2012
It was late night still, not yet early morning, not yet 3am when they arrived home, a Friday night dance club kind of tired, taking the express elevator to the thirty-fifth floor. They could have taken the regular elevator, it was waiting for them with open doors, but they chose to wait, realizing that in their year and a half of using the express, they’d become spoiled, felt entitled and they were fine with that. Living in Manhattan, on Wall Street, in the Philippe Starck building, could do that to a person. And they were just fine with it.
The answering machine’s red light blinked in the dimness of nighttime light as they made their way into the living room. Brian instructed, “Messages,” listening as the familiar feminine voice filled the otherwise quiet space telling him that there were two, both from Lindsay Peterson, one left at 8pm, the other at 11:30pm. “Play.” He hovered over the machine, absently tapping a pencil, the eraser-soft rhythm of tap…tap tap -- tap…tap tap on the tabletop’s glass reflecting his anxiousness.
Already on his way down the hallway, Justin paused and, leaning against the wall, only half-seen in the nearly dark, he waited too.
( Read more... )
***************
