(no subject)
morning of the open call
Scarlett can't, for the life of her, figure out why she had set her alarm clock for eight. Nor does she particularly care to wake enough to remember what is so bloody important that she has to get up only three and a half short hours after stumbling to bed.
Fumbling for the off switch, sleep-blind and still just a little bit drunk from the night before, Scarlett makes the unwelcome discovery that her left arm is completely numb. She hadn't bothered to unfold the futon that served double duty as couch and bed in her little bachelor apartment that morning before tumbling into it and, as a result, had been lying with her entire weight on the now-asleep limb.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," she mutters as the hand flops uselessly against the little switch, refusing to respond to any of the orders being sent down from her increasingly awake and alert brain. Finally, in desperation, she tangles her fingers in the chord and flails, yanking the plug from the wall. The alarm falls mercifully silent. Scarlett turns over, buries her head beneath her pillow to block out the light seeping in from around the edges of her curtains, and falls immediately back to sleep.
When she wakes up again, it's much, much later. Out of habit, she glances over at her clock. The dark, blank face reminds her of what happened earlier, which in turns reminds her of...something.
There was something, something she can't quite remem--
The open call.
"Well, hell."
Rolling off the futon, Scarlett peels out of last night's shirt on her way to the kitchen and the digital clock in the stove. She has to fight against the dead weight of the numb arm (her right one this time), which gets tangled in the sleeves of her t-shirt as she tries to pull it over her head and walk at the same time. It's either a miracle or a testament to the order in apparent chaos theory that she only trips once on the clutter that covers the floor like a second layer of carpet. The first layer, she realises, has been MIA for at least a month, perhaps longer.
The clock on the stove reads 10:40am.
"Well, hell."
She'd meant to be on time for once. She'd even made a point of marking the date and time in red pen on the otherwise unmarked wipeboard calendar sticking to her fridge. She'd scrawled the note -- DBY opn call - 9AM! -- across three of the little squares and triple underlined the '9', just to be sure she'd remember.
Still, if she skips showering, she'll probably still make it pretty early. Even if she grabs breakfast on the way to the bus stop.
In the bathroom, she brushes her teeth, swipes at her underarms and between her legs with a wet face cloth, and runs an alcohol wipe over her face, removing what she can of last night's makeup. Some of the smudged eyeliner around her eyes refuses to come off and, rather than rubbing at it until her eyes are red and swollen, she leaves it alone. The dress that's draped over the back of the futon is reasonably unwrinkled. Her jewellery -- a necklace made up of bright turquoise beads and a chunky red watch -- are sitting on the kitchen counter, next to her bag. She grabs everything up, shoves her feet into the running shoes that are sitting precisely where they landed when she toed them off the night before, and is out the door.
Her watch, which is just a bit slower than the stove clock, says it's 10:46.
There is definitely, definitely time to grab a breakfast burrito and coffee from the little Mexican place a block away before the bus comes by.
Scarlett can't, for the life of her, figure out why she had set her alarm clock for eight. Nor does she particularly care to wake enough to remember what is so bloody important that she has to get up only three and a half short hours after stumbling to bed.
Fumbling for the off switch, sleep-blind and still just a little bit drunk from the night before, Scarlett makes the unwelcome discovery that her left arm is completely numb. She hadn't bothered to unfold the futon that served double duty as couch and bed in her little bachelor apartment that morning before tumbling into it and, as a result, had been lying with her entire weight on the now-asleep limb.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," she mutters as the hand flops uselessly against the little switch, refusing to respond to any of the orders being sent down from her increasingly awake and alert brain. Finally, in desperation, she tangles her fingers in the chord and flails, yanking the plug from the wall. The alarm falls mercifully silent. Scarlett turns over, buries her head beneath her pillow to block out the light seeping in from around the edges of her curtains, and falls immediately back to sleep.
When she wakes up again, it's much, much later. Out of habit, she glances over at her clock. The dark, blank face reminds her of what happened earlier, which in turns reminds her of...something.
There was something, something she can't quite remem--
The open call.
"Well, hell."
Rolling off the futon, Scarlett peels out of last night's shirt on her way to the kitchen and the digital clock in the stove. She has to fight against the dead weight of the numb arm (her right one this time), which gets tangled in the sleeves of her t-shirt as she tries to pull it over her head and walk at the same time. It's either a miracle or a testament to the order in apparent chaos theory that she only trips once on the clutter that covers the floor like a second layer of carpet. The first layer, she realises, has been MIA for at least a month, perhaps longer.
The clock on the stove reads 10:40am.
"Well, hell."
She'd meant to be on time for once. She'd even made a point of marking the date and time in red pen on the otherwise unmarked wipeboard calendar sticking to her fridge. She'd scrawled the note -- DBY opn call - 9AM! -- across three of the little squares and triple underlined the '9', just to be sure she'd remember.
Still, if she skips showering, she'll probably still make it pretty early. Even if she grabs breakfast on the way to the bus stop.
In the bathroom, she brushes her teeth, swipes at her underarms and between her legs with a wet face cloth, and runs an alcohol wipe over her face, removing what she can of last night's makeup. Some of the smudged eyeliner around her eyes refuses to come off and, rather than rubbing at it until her eyes are red and swollen, she leaves it alone. The dress that's draped over the back of the futon is reasonably unwrinkled. Her jewellery -- a necklace made up of bright turquoise beads and a chunky red watch -- are sitting on the kitchen counter, next to her bag. She grabs everything up, shoves her feet into the running shoes that are sitting precisely where they landed when she toed them off the night before, and is out the door.
Her watch, which is just a bit slower than the stove clock, says it's 10:46.
There is definitely, definitely time to grab a breakfast burrito and coffee from the little Mexican place a block away before the bus comes by.