Can you play? // Christy & Stephen
Stephen raised his eyebrows at the angry response; maybe he really should have kept walking. Still, he was only trying to be nice. Maybe he’d startled her. Except, she’d seemed equally as angry at everyone else who passed by…
“I wasn’t planning to put money in it,” Stephen said, and then before he could think about it, “Generally you have to actually be playing music for that.” He bit his lip, but if this woman was going to be snappy, he could too.
“I was just asking,” he said, shrugging, so maybe he was a little nosy. He was a reporter after all. Not that he did much field work….”You seem upset, and people don’t usually lounge around on sidewalks for no reason.”
Fixing her eyes determinedly on the man, Christy raised her eyebrows in a rather softer version of her usual scowl, her dark eyes emitting sparks, as per usual. Normally it scared children, but if you were used to it, the sparks could be pretty. Just. Nobody seemed to think that way about Christy even though they knew her.
"I do have a reason," she snapped as soon as she could, though did sound a bit calmer this time. Looking the man up and down one quick time, Christy got up in a swift movement, bending down again to pick up the guitar. The man had burst her angry bubble of sitting down acting like a three-year-old, so Christy decided it was past time she moved around a little. "And I can’t play the guitar, otherwise I would have."
She was not going to thank him for asking, even though his jawline made her want to, just to win him over. Hanging her bag over her shoulder, she surveyed him now when she stood.
"I’m Christy," she said through pursed lips, making an eye-roll downwards and then up, to meet the man’s gaze. She didn’t know why she never looked at somebody when she said her name, but it made her annoyed with herself, so her usual scowl reappeared in her face right on time. "And my musician didn’t turn up on time. Actually he didn’t turn up at all."
God, she wasn’t actually good at this. Making conversation. With strangers. Well, it wasn’t for lack of confidence. Whatever she did, Christy thought she did perfectly perfect. She didn’t budge. Just. Yeah.
Can you play? // Christy & Stephen
Stephen was on his way to the store, ready to use the coupons he’d saved from last Sunday’s paper. He’d realized he was running low on, well everything, and wondered when he’d gotten so distracted. It wasn’t like him.
As he approached the store he saw a young woman sitting on the sidewalk in front of it, holding a guitar and looking angry. She wasn’t playing, so she probably wasn’t trying to get tips or something. Actually, he was sure of it, with the way she was glaring at everybody.
He almost walked by her, head down. But then rethought it. Maybe something was wrong, after all, and it seemed impolite to just ignore her.
“Um, hello,” Stephen said uncertainly, “Are you…alright?”
The longer she sat there, the more the guitar looked like it belonged connected with the curb of the pavement. Though her anger had somehow subsided (if that was even possible for Christy), she was still annoyed, folding her arms across her chest. When someone very gently seemed to speak to her, Christy’s eyes shot sharply up, and met… well, a rather handsome man’s eyes, which, to be fair, threw her off for about a few seconds, before she reassembled herself again.
"I’m fine," she snapped, "do I look injured? Don’t put any money in the guitar, I’ll go through hell getting it out again, it’s so much fucking harder than people think."
She eyed him up and down as sharply as she’d first looked at him, inevitably concluding that he was indeed very handsome. Reaching out with one small hand, she fiddled at the neck of the guitar, softly playing at a random string she couldn’t have identified even if she wanted to. Subconsciously she was, perhaps, making sure that nothing had happened to it, nor that he was about to reach out and put some money in it.
Four days of misery begins. Seven missed call from my boss. Can the world
kindly go kill itself?
Can you play? // Open
'so can u play?'
'yeah. guitar piano, just pick w/e u want.'
'guitar! the corner by the supermarket 2morrow at 3pm?'
'yeah, ill b there.'
Of course he wasn’t. It was 4.43pm, and Christy was starting to look like a homeless person begging for money you’d put into the guitar which lay in front of her. Of course he wasn’t here. He hadn’t been here at 3pm, and he wasn’t going to show up anytime soon, either. Scowling, she cursed herself for even trying to trust that stupid stuttery git to lend one of his loser friends to play with her. It’d been a dream of hers, to sit peacefully in public and play guitar and sing cozy aucustic songs, and have people leave her money because she actually sang really well. But she couldn’t play. So she’d gone down over her neighbor like a storm, and forced him to give her a number to a guy in his band who could help her. Was it that fucking stupid Christy had actually thought this was going to lead somewhere? A small start in her career, maybe even a nice little relation with a future bandmember? But no. 3pm had passed, she’d called him four times within half an hour, and he hadn’t picked up once. The last time she’d growled into his answering machine and possibly eliminated every chance of him coming at all.
And now people were staring. A child had approached with a coin and had tried putting it into the guitar, but she’d growled 'Are you mad?!' at him, and sent him running. So she sat cross-legged, hands on each of her jeans-clad knees, alone and scowling, trying to refrain from smashing the guitar in front of her against the curb of the pavement. From time to time her ponytail swayed violently as she followed a staring person with her glare, making them hurry their steps.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE INANIMATE OBJECT?
I’d say my phone, but my boss constantly calls it so I guess not.
Yeah, hi. Whatever.
Let’s see what kind of douche will ruin my day tomorrow. I’m off to bed.