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...and it's not even Thursday? - Diary of a Necromancer
Excuse me, I'm making perfect sense, you're just not keeping up
...and it's not even Thursday?
...So of course the new userpic of Jason that djinni did in a icon-day-thing turns up just in time for an installment that he's not exactly in. But I don't have a Trevor icon, insert-vampire-joke-here, so there you go. I suspect it's Jason's way of demanding attention, like the way Inner Jason spent last Sunday making me watch New Scandinavian Cooking for SEVEN HOURS... {sigh} (And Muse, BTW, has decided that Jason's original major was chemistry, which is sort of like cooking but a touch more respectable vis-a-vis employment prospects, at least in theory, and possibly even something he might have salvaged a few credits out of.) Remind me again why I was doing this?


Jill's condo is a top-floor walk-up like our flat, but noticably more upscale in its appointments. The front, where we have a dining-table laid out in the sun-porch, is her bedroom, a glassed-in conservatory open to a fine full view of the sky above. No flatmates, then, I hazard.

She fidgets. I've hit a nerve. There was a guy... Had to break it off, I kept dreaming about eating him.

Understandable, that she wouldn't have gone out of her way to share the space again.

She's cooking. "Don't get your hopes up," she warns as I give a considering look to the pots burbling away on the immense hob. (I know from Jason that her cooker was how they met; he may not have a professional budget, but he'll still talk your ear off on the subject of high-end equipment given the slimmest excuse. She's only lucky he's not mercenary enough to have taken up with her for the sake of her kitchen appliances.) "It's only spaghetti, nothing fancy like you're used to."

Considering Jason's distinct bias towards meat in all its manifestations, pasta seems a rare treat. As is the bottle of wine I've brought, a servicable red that Jason had one of his colleagues recommend for the occasion (which, Jason had made a point of remarking when he left it out for me, he'd characterised as the 'we've already gotten it on and somehow we're still speaking' date, as if there's some sort of established etiquette to that), the year on the bottle an affront to all reason but the sort of thing one must get used to from now on. Jill doesn't seem to notice it. The remodelling that had tarted-up the sun-porch had also sacrificed a proper dining-room in favour of creating a walk-in pantry; we eat in the kitchen, intimate even if what it suggests is a bit lonely, exchanging banal trivialities. Did... Trish, like the vase?


After supper we settle in together on her settee to watch a costume-drama. "Must seem like home, to you," she remarks of the relatively modern setting.

"Not really an above-stairs bloke," I say, but my mind drifts to the thought of Jill in something narrow and high-waisted, hair swept up with enamelled dragonflies. Her favourite red is a bit bright, maybe a claret. She's slim enough to carry it off without the undergirdings --

"You did go somewhere there, though," she says, nudging my shoulder.

"Just wondering why everyone assumes that they'd be the ones with the servants, and not down in the scullery themselves," I say.

"Right, Jason warned me you're a socialist," she teases, and then a pause, before she laughs; "Is it me, or is this weirder than our last date?"

I have to admit that the same thing had been running through my own head. Jill flashes her wry smile, just a hint of pearly sharpness behind crimsoned lips, and leans in closer, to purr, So... I was thinking maybe we could try it without the deer-intestines?

Kinky, I say.


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ashnistrike From: ashnistrike Date: September 23rd, 2011 02:00 am (UTC) (permalink this entry)
robling_t From: robling_t Date: September 23rd, 2011 10:22 pm (UTC) (permalink this entry)
But of course they didn't quite make it through the evening without having to lampshade how goofy it all was... ;)
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