He's nervous. Why the actual fuck is he nervous? This is David "Micro" Lieberman, the guy who thought that calling him on a diner landline would intimidate him. ...Oh. You know what, whatever. This is sink or swim and he forgot his floaties. The knock sounds at the door and he actually jumps clean through his skin. This is dumb, he's dumb. It's fine.
Shrugging off whatever weird bought of nerves is currently overtaking him, Frank telegraphs his presence with heavy steps on the unfinished wood floor. He thinks of all the people who had been through this apartment, but never David. Because he's afraid of his best friend's scrutiny most of all. Afraid he'll see any small detail of Frank not coping and intervene somehow; though the whole scenario is highly unlikely.
All he can do is throw open the door and offer his friend a bland smile, ushering him inside the tiny space to make what he will of it. It's a glorified motel room -- a rent-by-the-week place that allows cash and the anonymity he needs. No matter the nerves or anything else, it's always good to see David. He's something right in a world of wrongs. Frank turns his back on him to lead his way through the place to the kitchen, if it could be called that.
Old, unfinished wooden floors abut the walls in varying stages of disrepair, moulding crumbling off corners or gone entirely long ago. There's a short couch facing an ancient television set, his mattress propped against the far wall that he obviously only lays down for sleeping; there would be no room to walk otherwise. His guitar hangs on the wall above it, in a high place of honor, but nothing else in the main room might suggest that a real person lives here. They walk past the tiny bathroom and onto the one place in his one-room existence that he genuinely enjoys, something that's apparent upon first observation.
There is an old linoleum floor, a rickety table sat in the middle. Two chairs bracket it, one with peeling blue pant and one high-backed with fresh black paint. There's a vase of orchids in the center. Clean dishes are piled up in the rack, suggesting he'd recently cooked for more than himself, and wires poke out of his tall pantry cabinet next to the stove where his ham radio is housed. Coffee percolates through the air with a soft, gurgling sound, two mugs awaiting them by the maker already. Frank's favored Indiana Hoosiers mug is there alongside the World's Best Grandma one he'd chosen for David.
For the first time since the other man came in, he turns to face him, leveling him with his heavy stare. This is it, he seems to say. This is my life. There's a tin bowl on the floor by the refrigerator, as if a dog was here. Is he functioning? Maybe. Well? Who knows. It escapes his notice that David might just be here to see him and not necessarily to assess him at all. "I don't have tea," he says, and to his credit it sounds almost apologetic as he goes to pour their cups.
no subject
Shrugging off whatever weird bought of nerves is currently overtaking him, Frank telegraphs his presence with heavy steps on the unfinished wood floor. He thinks of all the people who had been through this apartment, but never David. Because he's afraid of his best friend's scrutiny most of all. Afraid he'll see any small detail of Frank not coping and intervene somehow; though the whole scenario is highly unlikely.
All he can do is throw open the door and offer his friend a bland smile, ushering him inside the tiny space to make what he will of it. It's a glorified motel room -- a rent-by-the-week place that allows cash and the anonymity he needs. No matter the nerves or anything else, it's always good to see David. He's something right in a world of wrongs. Frank turns his back on him to lead his way through the place to the kitchen, if it could be called that.
Old, unfinished wooden floors abut the walls in varying stages of disrepair, moulding crumbling off corners or gone entirely long ago. There's a short couch facing an ancient television set, his mattress propped against the far wall that he obviously only lays down for sleeping; there would be no room to walk otherwise. His guitar hangs on the wall above it, in a high place of honor, but nothing else in the main room might suggest that a real person lives here. They walk past the tiny bathroom and onto the one place in his one-room existence that he genuinely enjoys, something that's apparent upon first observation.
There is an old linoleum floor, a rickety table sat in the middle. Two chairs bracket it, one with peeling blue pant and one high-backed with fresh black paint. There's a vase of orchids in the center. Clean dishes are piled up in the rack, suggesting he'd recently cooked for more than himself, and wires poke out of his tall pantry cabinet next to the stove where his ham radio is housed. Coffee percolates through the air with a soft, gurgling sound, two mugs awaiting them by the maker already. Frank's favored Indiana Hoosiers mug is there alongside the World's Best Grandma one he'd chosen for David.
For the first time since the other man came in, he turns to face him, leveling him with his heavy stare. This is it, he seems to say. This is my life. There's a tin bowl on the floor by the refrigerator, as if a dog was here. Is he functioning? Maybe. Well? Who knows. It escapes his notice that David might just be here to see him and not necessarily to assess him at all. "I don't have tea," he says, and to his credit it sounds almost apologetic as he goes to pour their cups.