I'm useless, but not for long; my future is comin' on

[gin-and-smoke.livejournal.com]

 

*It's early afternoon, sunlight slanting through the bay window and across the floor of Rose Anglesey's Hampstead flat. Despite the time she is only recently awake, her latest friend having left half an hour ago. He forgot his jacket; it's leather, and gorgeous, and Rose has no intention of returning it. It's nothing personal, but she thinks the jacket looks better on her, and it's a shame to wear something that beautiful badly. Anyway, she didn't get his number. Or last name. His first might have been Dmitri.

Showered and hair re-done in artfully messy curls (she has perfected bedhead), she's making breakfast in a slip and stockings. "Making", here, perhaps generously used: really she's just pulling together a bagel and lox, Lucky Strike held loosely between her lips, while the coffee maker chugs away nearby. A Billie Holiday record plays in the living room, and Rose hums along to "Just One of Those Things", feeling pleased with herself in a vague, general sense.

It's partly this lazy air of overall well-being and partly a trademark, ill-advised carelessness that prompts it, but when there's a knock at her door she doesn't think twice. Doesn't even bother looking up over the kitchen bar toward the sound, just calls out half-muffled around her fag.*
 

It's open!