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Dec. 13th, 2008 08:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dead_hooker_2Christmas Present
Trina is sitting with her hands on her knees, in the armchair next to the Christmas tree, staring at something on the far wall. Or maybe at nothing at all.
After a moment or ten, Virginie comes in with a mug in her hands. "Tea," she says, giving it to Trina, and sits down in the other chair.
Trina takes the mug, wraps her hands around it, but doesn't drink any of it. "Thank you. Eliza's . . .?"
"She is asleep," says Virginie.
"Visions of sugar plums," Trina says, sharp and dry.
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing. Don't worry about it," Trina says.
Another moment, and then Virginie says, "So that was your brother?"
"That was Logan, yes."
"And will he be visiting very often?"
Trina shakes her head. "No."
"Are you all right, Trina?"
"I'm . . . I'm fine. Thank you. You can go on ahead and call it a night, if you want. I'll lock up."
"Bonne nuit, then. Try not to stay up too late."
Only someone who knew Trina well would be able to tell just how forced the smile is. "But I have to wait up for Santa."
"Not too late," Virginie says.
Trina nods. But if the body language is anything to go by, she's going to be in that chair for a long, long time.
Christmas Future
Trina is sitting in the floor, facing a Christmas tree covered slightly haphazardly in ornaments clearly made by Eliza. Her hair is longer, she's older, and she's wearing -- if he's seeing correctly -- a green sweater with a poinsettia appliqued on it. And swearing under her breath at the present she's trying to wrap.
She has her back to the door, and therefore to the man who slips up behind her and covers her eyes with his hands. "Merry Christmas, Trina," he says, in her ear.
"Hey, you," she says, turning around, hands coming up to move his, and the lights catch the rings on her left hand. "You're supposed to be trapped in Chicago."
He pulls her to her feet, puts his arms around her waist, and kisses her. "Like eight measly inches of snow is going to keep me from finding a way home to my girls for Christmas. How is the munchkin?"
"Visions of sugar plums," Trina says, settling in against him. "Or possibly out of bed and wide awake, watching out the window for activity on neighborhood rooftops."
"My money's on the latter."
"Yeah, mine is, too," Trina says. "I'm really glad you're here. You can help wrap all this stuff."
"That the only reason you're glad I'm here?"
"No, but until the presents are wrapped, it's the only one I'm acting on."
He laughs, lets her go, and sits down. "So how's everything else?" he asks, and it's obvious that it's not so much a question about everything as it is about a particular something.
Trina shakes her head and sits down, too. "Can't stop it. Chris appreciates my concerns, but it's a nice juicy story and it's all public knowledge and public record, so there's really nothing I can do. Honestly, I think he's hoping that I'll make a fuss because, hell, can't buy that kind of publicity. Rewash all the family laundry in public, again, 'cause, you know, it's not like it'll ever come clean."
"I'm so sorry, sunshine," he says.
Trina shrugs. "It's just . . . Eliza's seven now. And she's old enough that she's going to start understanding what people are talking about. And her friends are going to know, and I just hate that she's going to have to deal with all the family fuck ups and scandals being back to front and center. And Chris is such a crap director that the movie's gonna suck anyway." Trina hands him a package. "Put that under the tree, would you?"
"I'm sorry," he says again. "We can talk to the lawyers again . . ."
"No, that's okay. I think the less we do the better, really, at this point," says Trina, picking up the next gift. "You have to hand it to him, though. Even dead, he's still managing to fuck up Christmas."
Trina is sitting with her hands on her knees, in the armchair next to the Christmas tree, staring at something on the far wall. Or maybe at nothing at all.
After a moment or ten, Virginie comes in with a mug in her hands. "Tea," she says, giving it to Trina, and sits down in the other chair.
Trina takes the mug, wraps her hands around it, but doesn't drink any of it. "Thank you. Eliza's . . .?"
"She is asleep," says Virginie.
"Visions of sugar plums," Trina says, sharp and dry.
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing. Don't worry about it," Trina says.
Another moment, and then Virginie says, "So that was your brother?"
"That was Logan, yes."
"And will he be visiting very often?"
Trina shakes her head. "No."
"Are you all right, Trina?"
"I'm . . . I'm fine. Thank you. You can go on ahead and call it a night, if you want. I'll lock up."
"Bonne nuit, then. Try not to stay up too late."
Only someone who knew Trina well would be able to tell just how forced the smile is. "But I have to wait up for Santa."
"Not too late," Virginie says.
Trina nods. But if the body language is anything to go by, she's going to be in that chair for a long, long time.
Christmas Future
Trina is sitting in the floor, facing a Christmas tree covered slightly haphazardly in ornaments clearly made by Eliza. Her hair is longer, she's older, and she's wearing -- if he's seeing correctly -- a green sweater with a poinsettia appliqued on it. And swearing under her breath at the present she's trying to wrap.
She has her back to the door, and therefore to the man who slips up behind her and covers her eyes with his hands. "Merry Christmas, Trina," he says, in her ear.
"Hey, you," she says, turning around, hands coming up to move his, and the lights catch the rings on her left hand. "You're supposed to be trapped in Chicago."
He pulls her to her feet, puts his arms around her waist, and kisses her. "Like eight measly inches of snow is going to keep me from finding a way home to my girls for Christmas. How is the munchkin?"
"Visions of sugar plums," Trina says, settling in against him. "Or possibly out of bed and wide awake, watching out the window for activity on neighborhood rooftops."
"My money's on the latter."
"Yeah, mine is, too," Trina says. "I'm really glad you're here. You can help wrap all this stuff."
"That the only reason you're glad I'm here?"
"No, but until the presents are wrapped, it's the only one I'm acting on."
He laughs, lets her go, and sits down. "So how's everything else?" he asks, and it's obvious that it's not so much a question about everything as it is about a particular something.
Trina shakes her head and sits down, too. "Can't stop it. Chris appreciates my concerns, but it's a nice juicy story and it's all public knowledge and public record, so there's really nothing I can do. Honestly, I think he's hoping that I'll make a fuss because, hell, can't buy that kind of publicity. Rewash all the family laundry in public, again, 'cause, you know, it's not like it'll ever come clean."
"I'm so sorry, sunshine," he says.
Trina shrugs. "It's just . . . Eliza's seven now. And she's old enough that she's going to start understanding what people are talking about. And her friends are going to know, and I just hate that she's going to have to deal with all the family fuck ups and scandals being back to front and center. And Chris is such a crap director that the movie's gonna suck anyway." Trina hands him a package. "Put that under the tree, would you?"
"I'm sorry," he says again. "We can talk to the lawyers again . . ."
"No, that's okay. I think the less we do the better, really, at this point," says Trina, picking up the next gift. "You have to hand it to him, though. Even dead, he's still managing to fuck up Christmas."
