[ While Ishmael's focus is kept on her glass and some faraway thoughts and memories, Marcille's gaze on her is steady, glassy, and vulnerable. Her face is still half-tucked into her folded arms, her mouth pressed against her hand.
If Ishmael looked at her, she would see a hint of desperation—a half-hearted hope that the answer Marcille wants would come out of her mouth. It's an answer she hasn't heard all night.
It doesn't come. She knew it wouldn't, but she let herself irrationally hope for it because she's drunk. Instantly crestfallen, Marcille feels her body grow heavier with an invisible weight, bearing down over her shoulders and head. She closes her eyes. From her eyelashes, two tears roll out and slip into the fabric of her sleeves.
Enough. Marcille sniffs and quietly mops them up. ]
no subject
If Ishmael looked at her, she would see a hint of desperation—a half-hearted hope that the answer Marcille wants would come out of her mouth. It's an answer she hasn't heard all night.
It doesn't come. She knew it wouldn't, but she let herself irrationally hope for it because she's drunk. Instantly crestfallen, Marcille feels her body grow heavier with an invisible weight, bearing down over her shoulders and head. She closes her eyes. From her eyelashes, two tears roll out and slip into the fabric of her sleeves.
Enough. Marcille sniffs and quietly mops them up. ]
It's impossible? How?