[The knife is resting on two pegs and is awkwardly high on the wall, like something to be kept for display, not everyday use, but it doesn't appear to be secured, in place or so high that she couldn't reach it if she stood underneath and stretched. It's an odd touch, like a sword over a mantelpiece, but something about the rough iron and the braided wrapping of the hilt certainly suggest it's not decorative.
The dream excuse! She vaguely thinks that's one she clung to, a long time ago. It's so human. She can't keep from smiling a bit more genuinely, even if it makes her lip sting.]
Maybe you are. You're more creative than I am, if so. I wouldn't think of this.
[...sitcom. Sitcom, that's the word she's been grasping towards, it applies to the decor, and maybe to finding herself in bed with a stranger. Or is it 'reality TV'? Old things she hasn't thought about for a longer period than she cares to calculate. She looks down at herself, twisting her neck to look back. How can she get off this bed? How can she move around the room? Two legs... she tries moving and slithers herself backwards, the skirt of her nightgown hiking up, until her two feet clear the edge of the bed and extend further off it. They don't bend right to touch the ground when she's posed like this, she has to push further, almost all the way to her hips, before her two feet touch - a rug! Oh! What a foreign texture!
...She feels like her thoughts are coming through mud. Doesn't she usually process this kind of thing faster? Normally she can get so much done at once. Is it because this is all the 'her' around? Is she... oh, she has no power here, is that it? Hm, that's a visceral cold sensation, and her eyes have widened. Better stand up - she lurches with the shift in weight and holds her arms out to catch her balance, but her body knows how to stand as a human even if she's not certain herself.]
...I'm sorry, I don't think I'm terribly clear myself. You could call me... Cady. That was my nickname at the U of M, I think. Or, you could call me Ms. Cady, if that's too informal.
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The dream excuse! She vaguely thinks that's one she clung to, a long time ago. It's so human. She can't keep from smiling a bit more genuinely, even if it makes her lip sting.]
Maybe you are. You're more creative than I am, if so. I wouldn't think of this.
[...sitcom. Sitcom, that's the word she's been grasping towards, it applies to the decor, and maybe to finding herself in bed with a stranger. Or is it 'reality TV'? Old things she hasn't thought about for a longer period than she cares to calculate. She looks down at herself, twisting her neck to look back. How can she get off this bed? How can she move around the room? Two legs... she tries moving and slithers herself backwards, the skirt of her nightgown hiking up, until her two feet clear the edge of the bed and extend further off it. They don't bend right to touch the ground when she's posed like this, she has to push further, almost all the way to her hips, before her two feet touch - a rug! Oh! What a foreign texture!
...She feels like her thoughts are coming through mud. Doesn't she usually process this kind of thing faster? Normally she can get so much done at once. Is it because this is all the 'her' around? Is she... oh, she has no power here, is that it? Hm, that's a visceral cold sensation, and her eyes have widened. Better stand up - she lurches with the shift in weight and holds her arms out to catch her balance, but her body knows how to stand as a human even if she's not certain herself.]
...I'm sorry, I don't think I'm terribly clear myself. You could call me... Cady. That was my nickname at the U of M, I think. Or, you could call me Ms. Cady, if that's too informal.