![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Operation: Lonely Heart
Feb. 15th, 2012 06:45 pmThe island or its masters has, in its infinite reach if not wisdom, seen fit to provide Joan with a wet bar, well stocked with single malts, gin, vodka, vermouth, crisp Chardonnays, light Pinot Grigios and a few excellent bottles of Opus One and two bottles of Perrier Jouet Belle Epoque that she promptly pushed to the back of the cabinet to keep for some very special day. That she can't imagine what might constitute such a day here on the island, unless Annie and Auggie, or Emily and someone, get engaged or married, matters not at all. She doesn't want the regular reminder of the person she most wants to appreciate them with.
The single malt she pours tonight is reminder enough, as is the fact she's brought an additional empty glass and the bottle, down out of the hut she shares with Emily onto the rocky outcropping on the beach. The moon is up, the breeze is warm, and her bare feet curl against the rock from beneath the gauzy empire waist rose dress she wears.
Joan's not usually given to flights of fancy. She's not poetic by nature, not in the flowery romantic sense, even if she has a private love of poetics compliments of David Bowie, Sting, and their ilk. But tonight, she has it in her to hope that, somehow, by breeze or moonlight on water or the call of the soul, her husband hears the call of an empty Scotch glass waiting for him. "I miss you, Arthur," she says softly with a sigh, then drinks and wishes she were romantic enough to believe he might be summoned as simply as Elijah.
The single malt she pours tonight is reminder enough, as is the fact she's brought an additional empty glass and the bottle, down out of the hut she shares with Emily onto the rocky outcropping on the beach. The moon is up, the breeze is warm, and her bare feet curl against the rock from beneath the gauzy empire waist rose dress she wears.
Joan's not usually given to flights of fancy. She's not poetic by nature, not in the flowery romantic sense, even if she has a private love of poetics compliments of David Bowie, Sting, and their ilk. But tonight, she has it in her to hope that, somehow, by breeze or moonlight on water or the call of the soul, her husband hears the call of an empty Scotch glass waiting for him. "I miss you, Arthur," she says softly with a sigh, then drinks and wishes she were romantic enough to believe he might be summoned as simply as Elijah.
