Post by Emmy on Dec 9, 2012 17:33:54 GMT -5
((ooc: i never post this much, gosh! need to get the feel of fiona, anyone willing?))
There was something her Father had always said about walking: look down at the ground and you’re vulnerable; look above everyone’s head and you’re confident. If you walk the ground with head bowed, everyone knows you are avoiding something and not just spat-out taffy; the mere fact that you’re scanning for dog doings means that you are expecting something bad to happen. With an attitude like that, you may as well lay down in front of a bus lane during rush hour. Fiona remembers this but she avoids something anyway: others’ eyes. Eyes are a threat to her. Her Father, or any ordinary person, wouldn’t really understand why. Needless to say, she heeds his advice and walks with her chin tilted slightly upward above the crowd, and at her height that wasn’t a difficult thing to manage. So she just looked a tad pompous.
Swinging at her elbow was a thin, canvas bag the colour of bland, if bland designated a colour and it was stuffed full of hardback books. Her hair was scraped back using a fierce comb, blistering tight and flat against her head, teasing any rebellious strands into the sculpture. It pulled her eyes to cut-throat slits. The hair tail swung back and forth as though it was made of bone. She was clad in her Spiritus uniform, with no difference from word-for-word regulation: skirt just above the knee, navy woollen stockings, shirt button done right up at the top with the tie about to choke her. This uniform was like her personal shelter. Over the top she wore a thick, blue-and-green tartan coat which seemed to work well against the bitterness of the outdoor weather and was heavy enough to stay put in breeze.
Fiona tightened her lips together and nibbled the chapped skin. For some reason the only thing that seemed to lift it was steam, so she sought out Tim Horton’s for something hot to drink. She strode through the bustle and entered the café, almost robotically sliding into the nearest booth which squelched unpleasantly from plastic that tried to be leather. Her books were swung onto the table, where, if there had been someone sitting opposite, would have sustained injury from a sharp corner or two. She patted her scalp briskly for stray hairs and removed her coat, shuffling primly so that she was sitting very upright. Someone came over and took her order which was as fussy as her uniform: coffee, two sachets of sugar and two percent milk served in a small jug, not mixed in. She took great pleasure in assembling things and was conscious of others’ perceptions on a decent cup of coffee, no matter how prestigious the establishment.
Pinching the bottom outer corners of her bag with pinkies stuck out, she encouraged the books to fall out. Fiona sat there making two neat piles, but was momentarily distracted by something outside of the window. Her hands hovered lamely over the scattered volumes and her hawk-eye bore straight through the glass to the other side, keeping very still and watching…
There was something her Father had always said about walking: look down at the ground and you’re vulnerable; look above everyone’s head and you’re confident. If you walk the ground with head bowed, everyone knows you are avoiding something and not just spat-out taffy; the mere fact that you’re scanning for dog doings means that you are expecting something bad to happen. With an attitude like that, you may as well lay down in front of a bus lane during rush hour. Fiona remembers this but she avoids something anyway: others’ eyes. Eyes are a threat to her. Her Father, or any ordinary person, wouldn’t really understand why. Needless to say, she heeds his advice and walks with her chin tilted slightly upward above the crowd, and at her height that wasn’t a difficult thing to manage. So she just looked a tad pompous.
Swinging at her elbow was a thin, canvas bag the colour of bland, if bland designated a colour and it was stuffed full of hardback books. Her hair was scraped back using a fierce comb, blistering tight and flat against her head, teasing any rebellious strands into the sculpture. It pulled her eyes to cut-throat slits. The hair tail swung back and forth as though it was made of bone. She was clad in her Spiritus uniform, with no difference from word-for-word regulation: skirt just above the knee, navy woollen stockings, shirt button done right up at the top with the tie about to choke her. This uniform was like her personal shelter. Over the top she wore a thick, blue-and-green tartan coat which seemed to work well against the bitterness of the outdoor weather and was heavy enough to stay put in breeze.
Fiona tightened her lips together and nibbled the chapped skin. For some reason the only thing that seemed to lift it was steam, so she sought out Tim Horton’s for something hot to drink. She strode through the bustle and entered the café, almost robotically sliding into the nearest booth which squelched unpleasantly from plastic that tried to be leather. Her books were swung onto the table, where, if there had been someone sitting opposite, would have sustained injury from a sharp corner or two. She patted her scalp briskly for stray hairs and removed her coat, shuffling primly so that she was sitting very upright. Someone came over and took her order which was as fussy as her uniform: coffee, two sachets of sugar and two percent milk served in a small jug, not mixed in. She took great pleasure in assembling things and was conscious of others’ perceptions on a decent cup of coffee, no matter how prestigious the establishment.
Pinching the bottom outer corners of her bag with pinkies stuck out, she encouraged the books to fall out. Fiona sat there making two neat piles, but was momentarily distracted by something outside of the window. Her hands hovered lamely over the scattered volumes and her hawk-eye bore straight through the glass to the other side, keeping very still and watching…
