(no subject)
Sand, is the first thing he realizes. Consciousness has been slow in coming, like so very many mornings-after, where he’d drank just enough to keep up but not enough to get careless. He doesn’t remember drinking, but he feels like he has been. Must have been, if what his fingertips and cheek are telling him is true, that he’s laying on sand. He can hear the soft shushing sound of the ocean pulling in and out - it’s not something you can mistake.
He remembers throwing his Timex as far as he could make it go and having it land satisfyingly far out in the reservoir at Central Park. Takes a licking and keeps on sinking... his mind supplies automatically. He remembers following it with his wedding ring, which had skipped once like a flat stone, and having lifted his leather bound portfolio to fling after it, to the bewilderment of other passers-by.
He remembers, ultimately, changing his mind on that. After that, there was this.
As slow as the memories come back to him, Salvatore is still not sure which part of his life’s sudden changes he should assume is the dream. One part has to be - either he’d dreamed he was part of an advertising firm who’d been fired for… reasons he still doesn’t want to think about, or he was dreaming now. As little as that makes sense, he’s not sure which option he’d rather have.
As he sits up, in the darkness of early evening, and rolls up his sleeves, he wonders if it’s worth it to bother trying to brush the sand out of his suit. If it’s worth it to worry so much about appearances. He sighs, deeply, and sits, expensive shoes filling slowly with sand as he balances his arms over his drawn up knees and tries to organize his thoughts. They’ve all fled off in about a hundred directions like the pigeons one of his neighbors keeps - kept? - on the roof of the apartment building he and Kitty lived in.
“Alright,” he says, forcing amiability into his tone and speaking to no one in particular. The view, at least, is gorgeous. The temperature is warm, but not objectionably so, even with his suit on, he’s dealt with worse. “I’ll just wait, then.”
To wake up? Or for someone else to tell him he’s not dreaming? It’s fine. In the meantime, he unfolds the small sketchbook in his pocket, finds that one of his pens has disgorged the contents of its ink all over the pocket of his shirt, and begins sketching anyway.
[ooc: He'll only need explaining the once, even if it doesn't seem to sink in right away, it'll have to be something he comes to on his own terms. Feel free to encounter him anywhere down on the southern coastline, sitting and sketching! I tend toward long tags, but short is no problem for me and if I bother you with my longwindedness, let me know and I'll reign myself in!]
He remembers throwing his Timex as far as he could make it go and having it land satisfyingly far out in the reservoir at Central Park. Takes a licking and keeps on sinking... his mind supplies automatically. He remembers following it with his wedding ring, which had skipped once like a flat stone, and having lifted his leather bound portfolio to fling after it, to the bewilderment of other passers-by.
He remembers, ultimately, changing his mind on that. After that, there was this.
As slow as the memories come back to him, Salvatore is still not sure which part of his life’s sudden changes he should assume is the dream. One part has to be - either he’d dreamed he was part of an advertising firm who’d been fired for… reasons he still doesn’t want to think about, or he was dreaming now. As little as that makes sense, he’s not sure which option he’d rather have.
As he sits up, in the darkness of early evening, and rolls up his sleeves, he wonders if it’s worth it to bother trying to brush the sand out of his suit. If it’s worth it to worry so much about appearances. He sighs, deeply, and sits, expensive shoes filling slowly with sand as he balances his arms over his drawn up knees and tries to organize his thoughts. They’ve all fled off in about a hundred directions like the pigeons one of his neighbors keeps - kept? - on the roof of the apartment building he and Kitty lived in.
“Alright,” he says, forcing amiability into his tone and speaking to no one in particular. The view, at least, is gorgeous. The temperature is warm, but not objectionably so, even with his suit on, he’s dealt with worse. “I’ll just wait, then.”
To wake up? Or for someone else to tell him he’s not dreaming? It’s fine. In the meantime, he unfolds the small sketchbook in his pocket, finds that one of his pens has disgorged the contents of its ink all over the pocket of his shirt, and begins sketching anyway.
[ooc: He'll only need explaining the once, even if it doesn't seem to sink in right away, it'll have to be something he comes to on his own terms. Feel free to encounter him anywhere down on the southern coastline, sitting and sketching! I tend toward long tags, but short is no problem for me and if I bother you with my longwindedness, let me know and I'll reign myself in!]