Having spent all day travelling in airports: Matla -> Charles de Gaulle -> Kyiv this is both appropriate and the last thing I wanted to write about today :-D
At the airport Her mother had been an interior designer with a desire to be Bohemian twenty years after people stopped really understanding what they meant. Her father was slightly deaf, slightly blind, and very religious, going so far as to preach to people on busses and trains until he was banned from all metropolitan area public transport. She was Anaglypta Dupetitpois, a young independent woman with a name she alternately hated and loved, possibly bipolar and unmedicated, with a Tinder profile that excited and enchanted men of all ages, colours and body types. She was also standing at the airport trying to say goodbye to Gary, who was not obese (according to his doctor he was a 'rugby-build' on an ectomorphic frame), not slightly shorter than her (when he had his special shoes on), and not in love with her. At least, that's what she kept telling herself, while pressing his pudgy hands back down to his waist, and leaning away from his attempts to kiss her. She'd found the engagement ring in his sock drawer the previous evening and hidden it at the back of the bread-bin. He'd be sure to find it there, but only after she'd flown off. "God doesn't want us to move quickly on this," she said, taking two steps backwards. He followed her, which she found invasive. "Social distancing," she said, placing her hand on his chest, which squished. He stopped moving, but his eyes were cow-like and his thick, rubbery lips were moving in what could either be words, or a low, solemn moo of disapproval. "You don't believe in God," he said, though the words ran together and she wondered if there was any bovine ancestry in his family. He had looked -- he did still look! -- so much better on paper. "My dad does," she said, enjoying the warmth of telling the absolute truth. "And he spoke to God for me." "Your dad's the bus-preacher, right?" Gary's face fell, which is to say that his chins wobbled and his jowls jiggled. "Everyone knows he's got a direct line to the Almighty." "Yeah," said Anaglypta. "Thanks to the judge refusing to ban the newspaper coverage." "Is it true that he can get prayers answered for people?" Anaglypta smiled, spotting Gary's tentative gambit for what it was. "Depends on who you are," she said. "It helps if you're family or congregation." "Right, right," said Gary. He pressed forward and her hand sank into his chest surprisingly deeply. "How long before you flight leaves?" "No time at all!" said Anaglypta brightly.
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Having spent all day travelling in airports: Matla -> Charles de Gaulle -> Kyiv this is both appropriate and the last thing I wanted to write about today :-D
At the airport
Her mother had been an interior designer with a desire to be Bohemian twenty years after people stopped really understanding what they meant. Her father was slightly deaf, slightly blind, and very religious, going so far as to preach to people on busses and trains until he was banned from all metropolitan area public transport. She was Anaglypta Dupetitpois, a young independent woman with a name she alternately hated and loved, possibly bipolar and unmedicated, with a Tinder profile that excited and enchanted men of all ages, colours and body types. She was also standing at the airport trying to say goodbye to Gary, who was not obese (according to his doctor he was a 'rugby-build' on an ectomorphic frame), not slightly shorter than her (when he had his special shoes on), and not in love with her. At least, that's what she kept telling herself, while pressing his pudgy hands back down to his waist, and leaning away from his attempts to kiss her. She'd found the engagement ring in his sock drawer the previous evening and hidden it at the back of the bread-bin. He'd be sure to find it there, but only after she'd flown off.
"God doesn't want us to move quickly on this," she said, taking two steps backwards. He followed her, which she found invasive. "Social distancing," she said, placing her hand on his chest, which squished. He stopped moving, but his eyes were cow-like and his thick, rubbery lips were moving in what could either be words, or a low, solemn moo of disapproval.
"You don't believe in God," he said, though the words ran together and she wondered if there was any bovine ancestry in his family. He had looked -- he did still look! -- so much better on paper.
"My dad does," she said, enjoying the warmth of telling the absolute truth. "And he spoke to God for me."
"Your dad's the bus-preacher, right?" Gary's face fell, which is to say that his chins wobbled and his jowls jiggled. "Everyone knows he's got a direct line to the Almighty."
"Yeah," said Anaglypta. "Thanks to the judge refusing to ban the newspaper coverage."
"Is it true that he can get prayers answered for people?"
Anaglypta smiled, spotting Gary's tentative gambit for what it was. "Depends on who you are," she said. "It helps if you're family or congregation."
"Right, right," said Gary. He pressed forward and her hand sank into his chest surprisingly deeply. "How long before you flight leaves?"
"No time at all!" said Anaglypta brightly.
Greg - hah, you're welcome!
That is one hell of a name. I'm curious as to where/how you came up with it.
Gary seems... persistent.
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