[ It doesn't occur to her that Frank might be lying. For one, he seems cranky and insane, but not necessarily duplicitous by nature. Secondly, she tends to assume in most situations people are telling the truth, or their version of it. Going around second guessing everything people say to you sounds like a shit way to live a life.
And she does want to go home. Let the chittering and the creaking of the not-alive filter back in and lull her to sleep. She wants to be back in her shitty single room unit with its poor sound proofing and its insistence that a microwave is an acceptable substitution for an oven. This resort is so quiet — she's half-convinced someone scooped out her brain and replaced it with a coconut when she wasn't looking. ]
Okay.
[ It's softly said. Her gaze drops for a beat, checking on the guy under his boot. She doesn't enjoy the sight at all. There's no thrill of vindication, just a creeping sense of weariness with this weird world. ]
I'm trusting you, Franklin.
[ The windows roll up, the car pulls out smoothly.
A few days pass. Nash carries around loose, rushed, frenetic sketches of the three drunks in her sketchpad. Freckles, birthmarks, popped collars, bad haircuts, any little details she can remember. When a week passes and they don't appear, ghoulish and severe and furious, in her bathtub or the backseat of her car or the furthest corner of her closet, she relaxes. The next time she sees Frank, she greets him brightly. ]
no subject
And she does want to go home. Let the chittering and the creaking of the not-alive filter back in and lull her to sleep. She wants to be back in her shitty single room unit with its poor sound proofing and its insistence that a microwave is an acceptable substitution for an oven. This resort is so quiet — she's half-convinced someone scooped out her brain and replaced it with a coconut when she wasn't looking. ]
Okay.
[ It's softly said. Her gaze drops for a beat, checking on the guy under his boot. She doesn't enjoy the sight at all. There's no thrill of vindication, just a creeping sense of weariness with this weird world. ]
I'm trusting you, Franklin.
[ The windows roll up, the car pulls out smoothly.
A few days pass. Nash carries around loose, rushed, frenetic sketches of the three drunks in her sketchpad. Freckles, birthmarks, popped collars, bad haircuts, any little details she can remember. When a week passes and they don't appear, ghoulish and severe and furious, in her bathtub or the backseat of her car or the furthest corner of her closet, she relaxes. The next time she sees Frank, she greets him brightly. ]