Participants:
| Scene Title | Slippery Words |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Tamara picks out paint and offers cryptic words of advice to Tasha. |
| Date | June 9, 2010 |
An Art Supply Store
While most of her time has been spent helping to get Gun Hill in working order, Tasha has pleaded off from the duty of painting walls to the much more pleasurable errand of getting the supplies to paint canvases, along with other tools and media for her artist toolbox. She carries a shopping basket and strolls the aisles like the proverbial kid in the candy store. New pastels are picked out to replace the sad and broken ones that were all but destroyed in the skirmish with Sable; new charcoal pencils in varying sizes are selected next. Now she stands in the paint section, chewing her thumbnail as she gazes at the colorful array of every shade under the rainbow, trying to think of what's on her agenda to paint.
The springlike weather has her in denim capris, a snug-fitting yellow t-shirt, and classic Converse Chucks worn without socks. Earbuds snaking into her ear leak a little of her music for others to catch a phrase or two of Bob Marley.
Someone else's hand intrudes into Tasha's field of view without so much as a spoken greeting; admittedly, with the headphones in place, it may be that she wouldn't easily hear a spoken greeting. A shade of vibrantly apple green is selected — and promptly deposited in Tasha's basket.
"Start with that one."
The woman who sees fit to do Tasha's shopping for her smiles at the younger girl, slightly mussed blonde hair fallen forward over a soft gray t-shirt with butterflies chasing up one side, the motif more or less describing a triangle upwards from the bottom hem. Her blue jeans are frayed around the edges, and her sneakers have seen better days — but the face wearing that smile is a familiar one, and Tamara still wears the counterpart to Colette's silver ring.
"It's a good color."
Dark eyes glance down at the color — her favorite color — and then up to that familiar face before widening a little. Her cheeks grow rosy with a little bit of embarrassment; given Tamara's ability, she probably knows just how close Colette and Tasha are, though she's not sure if Colette ever actually said anything. Not that she'd need to. Still, it's an awkward situation, and Tasha merely nods dumbly for a moment, before finding her voice.
"Actually, it's just the right color," she says, smiling uncertainly as she turns to look at the other girl a little more directly. "Thanks. But you probably knew that. How are you, Tamara?" The question is direct, though she doesn't expect a very direct answer, since Colette has told her how difficult it is to understand the precog sometimes.
Tamara glances away as Tasha speaks, catching a bit of her long hair between her fingers and rolling it back and forth, twisting and untwisting the strands. Fidgeting. She shifts her weight once to the other foot, scanning row upon row of paint selections without really taking them in. "I don't know," the seeress finally says, catching her lower lip between her teeth as she looks back to Tasha.
Looks promptly away, up, past the shelving to the windows visible more as suggestions of illumination seeping over the racks of products than openings on the outside world. "I don't — know why. But it's okay," Tamara says then, with a visible shift in manner, an all-too-deliberate banishment of whatever her concerns are. It's okay because I demand it be. She smiles at Tasha, fragile attempt at reassurance. "The shadows go on. They always do."
The younger of the two looks at Tamara with wide eyes, a little frightened by the uncertainty of that answer. Is it because of her, more specifically, her and Colette, that Tamara is obviously conflicted and upset? Tasha just nods slowly, reaching for another bottle of paint — this one a vibrant blue somewhere between periwinkle and cerulean — and puts it into the basket next to the apple green.
"I'm … I'm sorry," Tasha says, more to the basket than to Tamara, before looking up again. Is that sympathy or apology? It's hard to tell. Maybe both. "Is there anything I can help you with?"
Tamara steps forward when Tasha mumbles to the basket, reaching up to press her fingertips against the other girl's cheekbone. It's the sort of gesture one might use when assuring the solidity of something — or, in a gentle manner that's more reassurance than dependence, using the object touched as an anchor. Blue eyes meet brown, the older girl's brows drawing in.
"Not sorry," she tells Tasha; it's a directive rather than a correction: don't be sorry. "Just — be careful not to blind yourself," Tamara continues, and this sounds like nothing so much as a plea, however mild and reserved. "Boxes are only as stiff as you make them, and, sometimes, you only needed them because you insisted on having them."
Tasha's lips part and she stares in some wonder and awe of the other woman, who, although older, seems fragile in a way that Tasha can't put her finger on. It's a different fragility than Colette's. The word blind confuses her, given Colette's current medical condition. Does she mean literally or metaphorically? She shakes her head, her own brows furrowed.
"I don't understand," she says. "Blind? Boxes? I … what do the two have to do with one another? I don't understand… what do you want me to know? Or… what do you want me to do?"
Tamara shakes her head as Tasha asks those questions — no. Just that. Not those questions. She knows exactly what the net gain will be if she tries to answer. Taking a step away, the seeress picks one other color of paint off the wall, a dark sable brown, and sets it gently in Tasha's basket. "Be," she says softly. "That's all any could ask."
And it is, apparently, all the more Tamara will say, as the blonde turns away and begins walking down the aisle.
Frowning at the brown, Tasha shakes her head, not sure what painting that she has in mind that's for — it's not in any of the palettes she's envisioned for the few paintings she has planned. She looks up at Tamara, frowning at the cryptic messages, though not angry at the girl in the least. "Did you…" her voice fails her a little, and she clears it, then tries again, "did you want me to say anything to Colette for you?" she calls after the blonde as Tamara moves down the aisle.
The blonde pauses, not quite looking back over her shoulder. "…No," she replies softly. "Words are too slippery to be left out on their own." Then Tamara moves on.
"Slippery," Tasha repeats, with another shake of her head, before she glances down at the paints. Green and brown, picked out by Tamara. The cerulean-periwinkle hybrid, chosen by herself — while talking to Tamara. Setting the blue aside, she picks up the others and studies them before a connection between the two colors is made. Her lips curve into a smile and she looks back at the paints, fingers trailing along their glossy bottles until she selects an orange to pair with the blue, the colors of a certain paint fight in Grand Central Terminal.