Moments Shared


sable_icon.gif tasha_icon.gif

Scene Title Moments Shared
Synopsis Sable asks Tasha to share a moment, and things… end poorly.
Date June 27, 2010

Gun Hill: Rooftop

Situated atop the Gun Hill apartment building, five stories above street level, the rooftop of the tenement building overlooks the Bronx's gritty urban landscape. A single stair access leads out onto the smooth concrete rooftop surrounded by a three foot high red brick wall with a masoned top. Ventillation pipes and a chimney that connects to the singular fireplace down in the basement rises up from the concrete rooftop, though the chimney's old brick is crumbling and weathered.

A pair of old sun-bleached folding lawn chairs are situated out on the roof along with a plastic cooler, while white sacks of loam and soil are set next to large lengths of scrap wood, a box of nails and a few carpentry tools; a project in the works.

The one good thing about the burial of the city in snow was that one could finally see the stars. The great blanket of night was punctured by innumerable pinpoints of light, a great stream of stellar glory spanning from horizon to horizon. The sort of thing that makes you want to indulge in needlessly flowery prose and… oh.

Right, the point being, that's no longer the case. The lights of the city have gobbled up all the lumens, drowning out the sky just as the sky's burden drowned out the city for that frigid month. Photonic vengeance. Still, that means that the city itself provides something to look at, if you can get the proper vantage.

The rooftop is a favorite spot for Sable, and she is certainly not alone in the desire, though she is currently alone in her attendance. The summer has made post-sunset ambulation perfectly pleasant, and the diminutive rocker pacing in a small circle, her right hand running a what looks to be a Bic lighter between her fingers. She's not looking at the city too much, despite her prospect. She keeps glancing at the door leading up from the building below. Patience has never been her strong suit, and she's waiting. Preoccupation is written across her never-too-guarded features.

The door opens, and Tasha's head peeps through, eyes scanning the roof top perhaps a touch warily. She emerges, dressed for the summer's balmy night in cut off shorts and Bonnaroo 2009 t-shirt, feet in green Converse that stride across the rooftop to where Sable sits, her cell phone helping to illuminate her path.

"Hi," she says simply, lifting her phone to indicate she got the message and is not here out of some strange cosmic coincidence. She moves to one of the lawn chairs, the old thing creaking and protesting against her scant weight. "How'd the gig go the other night, with the makeup and all?" With so many of the Gun Hill residents at the event, she had stayed back to help babysit the Lighthouse kids.

Sable gives Tasha a slanted smile and a pointed finger in greeting, the lighter clasped by thumb and palm in the pointing hand. "Went awesome. Y' did right by me," she says, arm dropping as she moves over, kicking one of the lawn chairs so that it skids up next to Tasha's and falling back into it herself. "So," she continues, reaching into a pocket of her cargo pants and extracting two small, pale cylinders - are those cigarettes? "Only fair that I do right by you." One of the smokes is offered to Tasha, held between index and middle finger, while the other is held close in Sable's palm.

"I'm glad. Everyone said you guys played great. I'll have to catch you next time, for sure," Tasha says, pulling her feet up onto the lawn chair and wrapping her arms around her legs. She waves a hand at the cigarettes.

"I actually quit not long ago," she says, "but thanks anyway. I don't mind if you do, though, so you know — light up, light up." The last bit is sung teasingly, the Snow Patrol song played to death on the radio after being made popular on the medical drama all the girls watch. Tasha's voice is actually good, if the four syllables are any indication.

"But you know. It was not a big thing, and you don't have to, like, go out of your way to pay me back. I enjoyed doing it," she adds, leaning back and looking out at the flickering lights of the city.

The offered cigarette doesn't go away. It hangs there, insistent, bridging the gap between chairs. "Do me a favor, eh?" Sable says, "You don't have t' actually smoke it 'r nothin'. Just, like, puff it, y'know," she grins, "Like they do in movies. We need t' share this moment, dig?" The lighter spins up to ready position, spins back, in her other hand. "I don't smoke neither, 'cept 't certain, like, moments that need t' be shared. 'n' I don't have any green, so this'll have t' do."

"So you're what they warned me about in school, Miss Peer Pressure," Tasha says with a laugh, but shrugs, taking the cigarette. Luckily, she really was just trying it out, and hadn't gotten to the point of really needing it. And it was the little rush she liked, not the actual taste. Then there was the oral fixation that otherwise manifests in chewing her thumbnail — smoking looks cooler, right?

"What moment are we sharing?" Tasha asks, brows knitting together in both bemusement and amusement as she brings the cigarette to her mouth and leans toward Sable for the light.

Sable uses the side of her thumb to operate the lighter, a classic smoker's trick she picked up from running with exactly the kinds of crowds Tasha was warned about. The flame flicker into dancing life, igniting the end of Tasha's cigarette, and Sable waits for the other girl to puff before drawing back her hand and lighting her own. She takes a small draw, and gives a few coughs, obviously not a practiced smoker, though she smiles and gives her little head a shake afterwards as the nicotine hits her as it can only hit someone who doesn't smoke.

"We," Sable says, voice a little rough around the edges from coughing, "Are sharin' a moment of, like… I actually dunno what t' call it. Mebbe I'd know if I'd gone t' college," this is said with a smirk and a sideways glance at Tasha, "Which I hear yer headin' back t', right? Or tryin'? Is it bad luck t' wish y' good luck?" Her hand waves, and the cigarette trails smoke. It does look cool.

"Don't matter. I wanna get some shit straight with y', 'cause I figure I've been kinda all in all sort 'f a shit t' y', fer reason that, like, certainly felt fuckin' sensible at the time but, like, lookin' back now I think basically y' didn't th' least bit deserve. Which mebbe I knew then too, but bein' oftentime th' shit I figure m'self t' be, more, like, urged me t' be shitty rather than th' opposite, since nothin' worse than innocence in someone y' wanna think 'f as guilty, dig?"

Tasha inhales to help the cigarette ignite, but manages not to cough, though she also exhales immediately, not holding any of the smoke in her mouth. She smiles at the sentiment of luck, and nods her thanks, then her brows draw together with more confusion at the tangle of words Sable throws at her next.

"Sable, you don't have to keep apologizing," she says, hand with the cigarette held away on the side closer to the edge of the roof. She watches the wispy smoke curl away and up into the night sky before turning back, brown eyes seeking yellow. "It's in the past. Que ha sido, ha sido. What has been, has been. I don't expect you to keep … saying sorry, you know? It happened, it sucked, you didn't mean it, let's move on, right? I know it wasn't personal, even if I took it that way, and the stuff at the Lighthouse, it wasn't even your fault, so… you know." She shrugs, and draws her knees up, resting her chin on top of them as her arms wrap around her shins, careful not to give herself a cigarette burn in the process.

Sable shakes her head, "Naw," she says, "This is about somethin' a fair bit bigger th'n what yer speakin' of. 'n' somethin' I'm seekin' to end properly, but I need yer blessin' t' go about it. So, like, I dig. No hard feelin's or fuckin' whatever, that's cool. But I've got a couple things t' ask y' and another thing I gotta confide 'n', like, get off m' chest. So, like, yeah. This is me doin' this f'r me, I know that, but I wouldn't 'f called y' up here, nor given y' a smoke 'nless I felt I had t' bug y' over it."

The yellow eyed girl takes another draw, longer this time, though she coughs less. She watches the plume of smoke she blows from between her lips, clearing out the last through her nostrils, which fume, momentarily draconic. "I wanna know whatall she's toldja 'bout me 'n' her," she jabs her ember in Tasha's direction, emphasizing the clarification to follow, "I'm not askin' 'bout what you know, hon. I'm askin' what y' were told."

Her eyebrows knitting together in that worried look they often have, Tasha nods at Sable's words, staring at the rubber toes of her green sneakers until the last bit brings her head up. She frowns and shakes her head at that query.

"No… I don't want to get in some weird she said/she said thing here, you know? I mean, if she said something that you don't think is quite what happened or if it's less than what you thought it meant or if it's more than you thought it meant, or anything like that, then … no," she shakes her head again, her short layers swinging around to hit her cheeks. "If that makes you angry at me, fine, but I don't want to cause any problems for her, because she's had enough, you know? I don't … I don't see that this line of questioning is going to help the situation any."

Sable stares straight ahead. Angry? Maybe. There's a tightness in her jaw, and the smoke smolders in her hand. She's quite for a good stretch of time before giving a sniff. "Ooof fuckin' 'course," she says, at length, "'n' this is precisely the fuckin' problem, eh? Because no one would wanna cause that poor gal any more hurt. I mean, y'know how desperate and close she'll hold y'. Y' know how delicate she feels in yer arms. Caught b'tween this cruel world 'f ours, 'n' her own strength, neither of which has no regard f'r the fragility 'f her, like, feelin's."

Yellow eyes cut across to Tasha once more, and there is something unmistakably fierce there. "I ask y' t' consider our feelin's, hon. The feelin's we both have. 'n' to consider that mebbe there's somethin' just a little fucked 'bout our whole, like, situation." Her words have unmistakeable sharpness. That edge turns away, though, as she goes on. "I ain't tryin' to cause no trouble or hurt, that I swear. Quite the fuckin' opposite. But I need t' be square with you 'bout things not to walk away feelin' sick 'n' hateful t'wards people I'd rather hold dear in my heart."

The cigarette is dropped, a green sneaker moving to stomp and wriggle the life out of it. "Please don't tell me what I know," she says quietly, eyes down once more. "And as far as feelings go — hers are going to come before yours, and I'm sorry if that upsets you at all, but that's how it is. And as far as something being fucked up, well, that's your perspective because maybe you don't have what you want out of it — and it's not going to be right in your eyes until you do." Tasha stands and turns away, head shaking more.

"I'm not going to let you be some Iago and whisper things that make me doubt her, Sable. I'm sorry if I came along and screwed up what might have been, but I didn't mean to hurt anyone, and you have plenty of people clamoring to be around you — let it go already and be with one of the people you don't have to fight someone else for, you know?" Tasha's voice chokes a little on the words as the tears well up.

"Fuckin'-A," Sable says, shaking her still-ignited cigarette, "Don't I fuckin' wish this was green. Jesus." She aims the smoke with one squinted eye, and flicks it out over the edge of the building. The glowing coal flickers out over the edge and disappears into the invisible darkness below.

Her yellow eyes slide shut and she sets her head back against the lawn chair's headrest. Her breath comes in a big inhale, held in her chest for a good three second before she lets it out. "I," Sable says, slowly and with distinctness, "Don't. Want her." Her eyes open, and the moment they do, they look tired. "I want her," is the contradiction that follows, "Because she wants me t' want her. But I don't want t' want her anymore. It ain't good f'r me, nor f'r her, nor f'r you, nor f'r that poor girl I fucked things up f'r. I just…"

A fist lifts, comes to rest on her brow, and her eyes close once more. "I'm so fuckin' worn out. I'm sick 'f the way she touches m' hair. 'n' I'm tired 'f the way she bites her fuckin' lip when she looks 't me. 'n' I'm dyin' of the way her little nose feels, brushin' 'gainst m' neck when she wrap 'er arms around me. It ain't fuckin' fair."

Her voice breaks at this last word, just for a moment, before fatigue takes over again, "To none 'f us three. 'n' I told 'er as much, couple days back, though not so harsh, 'cause 'f my fear for those delicate feelin's 'f hers. But still, right after, she took me in 'er arms 'n' she set her little nose 'gainst my neck 'n' I thought - I mustn't ever do this t' anyone. No one fuckin' deserves this. Not even a vicious little punk like me."

Tasha, her back still to Sable, reaches to cover her eyes, trying to will the tears away. It hurts her, too, how affectionate Colette is with everyone but she knows it stems from needing to be loved, needing to be wanted, needing to know that she's important to everyone. It hurts her, but she knows it's just who Colette is — and yet it's obviously hurting Sable, too.

She swallows, hard, trying to will the knot in her throat to shrink, to disappear. "I'll tell her it bothers you, if you want. Maybe she'll listen to me. She doesn't… I know she doesn't mean to hurt you or confuse you. She wouldn't do it on purpose," her voice is quiet, but resolute in the last part of her statement.

The sound that comes out of Sable isn't first recognizable as a laugh. It begins as something more like the coughs that followed her first inhale, short and choppy, but as it rolls up out of her chest, reaches her throat and the passages of her sinus, it takes on the high-toned quality of a hyena's cackle. Finally she just lets it out, lets it swell into the bitter, mirthful sound it was destined to become from the get-go. Her arms fold over her head as she shakes it, dark hair ruffling against her forearms.

"As if t' say, just 'cause she don't know it's to a purpose, that it hasn't got a fuckin' purpose?" Sable wheezes, "Oh, Lord preserve me, but if that ain't precisely the deadliest thing about her. Girl… I ain't the least bit fuckin' confused. I know th' game she plays, I know th' hunger she feels. The only difference, hon, is that she acts as if she's powerless b'fore it. But I know, darlin', that the only way t' keep it in line is t' bind y'rself with a powerful will. 'n' it must be yer own."

Her arms fall and she fixes Tasha with a steady look, dead serious now, though the laughter, otherwise departed, still crinkles the corners of her eyes. "You tellin' her won't do no good. She's th' one that's gotta tame herself. 'n' you'd best pray she does, because we're none 'f us more th'n a meal 'til then. She hasn't chosen you, hon. Don't fool yerself. She said t' me herself. She doesn't want t' have t' choose. But makin' that choice is the only way t' make yerself more than a slave t' yer hunger."

Tasha turns at the laugh, brows furrowed together in anger and hurt and confusion. She certainly doesn't find the humor in the situation that Sable does, and she gives a shake of her head, arms folding across her chest defensively.

"I don't know when she said that, but a lot has changed since … since Tamara has woken up, and she and I are handling it. The three of us are handling it. And I trust Colette. The one time she slipped? She told me about it, Sable. That's not some wild animal that's out of control. If she was, she wouldn't have stopped. And that's the problem right? That's what really pisses you off — is the fact that she stops." Tasha brushes a tear from her cheek and stares at Sable for a long moment before turning away.

"Look. We, like, live in the same building and all, and Colette's your friend and that's … that's whatever… but I don't think I'm going to come for any of these little tea parties again, if that's quite all right by you. You don't like me, no matter how much you say you don't dislike me, and right now, I'm not going to pretend I like you very much either." She pauses, kicking a bag of soil with the rubber toe of her shoe. "You wanted honesty — and that's about as honest as I'm going to get. She loves me, I love her. She loves Tamara, but right now she's with me even if you think she hasn't decided to be. She's decided to be for now, and that's all anyone can ask of anyone." She begins to walk toward the door, not looking back.

"Go!" Sable calls after Tasha, and that mirth is back, not voiced in laughter, but running through every word, "Go get eaten alive, hon! Such big eyes she's got, th' better t' bat in yer direction. Such big teeth she's got, th' better t' flatter 'er smile." She's leaning on the arm of Tasha's abandoned chair, speaking to Tasha's receding back. "It was five days ago she said it, hon. After fair Tamara woke. Nothin's changed."

For all her attributions, it's Sable's smile that's decidedly lupine at this moment. "'n' clearly, nothin' will."

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