Somewhere between the lines of her Ave Maria, GG has slipped from prayer to contemplation, her eyes closed as the familiar words peter out, her lips ceasing to move- she has not been saying the words aloud, preferring to mouth them silently. Now they drift away, though her eyes stay closed, blonde hair over her face; she doesn't kneel, sitting on one of the subtly uncomfortable chairs with her legs apart, elbows on her knees. Bent over, bowed, her hands clasped tight.
It's the busy silence of a number of people being very quiet, talking to themselves (or someone) in their heads. She breathes in and the scents are like colours. They speak of people on their own or in tight groups, and the curiously dismal air which spaces open to the public are prone to, as if the building itself is exhausted by the people coming in and out and never staying for long. It's not like home (it's not like home used to be) where religion was sensory and tactile, wooden pews and rosary beads between her fingers, incense in the air and a congregation murmuring in sync, rising and falling like waves- their voices and they themselves, standing and sinking on cue, carrying GG along with them.
This feels like a hospital waiting room, she thinks; there's that same air of slightly damp anticipation, the same urge to try and work out what everyone else is suffering from and the same fear of making eye contact.
She falls deeper and deeper into listening, breathing in, so still she could be part of the sparse and slightly sad furniture. Her mind is blank, but her senses are running wild, and it's actually almost peaceful in a last ditch way, until sudden, sharp movement from across the room makes her head snap up.
GG sees him leave, stays frozen for a second. Some people ignore his exit, some look uncertainly over at the door and at each other.
"Crisse," mutters GG, appropriately, and hauls herself up from her chair, ignoring the less-than-holy clunk of her boots on the floor as she heads for the exit. The outside world is noisy and feels more real, less like a bad parody of itself.
God, he looks sick.
"Hey," she says. She's a tad too abrupt; it sounds more like a demand for attention than a greeting, as if she's caught him red-handed at something. "Are you alright?"
no subject
It's the busy silence of a number of people being very quiet, talking to themselves (or someone) in their heads. She breathes in and the scents are like colours. They speak of people on their own or in tight groups, and the curiously dismal air which spaces open to the public are prone to, as if the building itself is exhausted by the people coming in and out and never staying for long. It's not like home (it's not like home used to be) where religion was sensory and tactile, wooden pews and rosary beads between her fingers, incense in the air and a congregation murmuring in sync, rising and falling like waves- their voices and they themselves, standing and sinking on cue, carrying GG along with them.
This feels like a hospital waiting room, she thinks; there's that same air of slightly damp anticipation, the same urge to try and work out what everyone else is suffering from and the same fear of making eye contact.
She falls deeper and deeper into listening, breathing in, so still she could be part of the sparse and slightly sad furniture. Her mind is blank, but her senses are running wild, and it's actually almost peaceful in a last ditch way, until sudden, sharp movement from across the room makes her head snap up.
GG sees him leave, stays frozen for a second. Some people ignore his exit, some look uncertainly over at the door and at each other.
"Crisse," mutters GG, appropriately, and hauls herself up from her chair, ignoring the less-than-holy clunk of her boots on the floor as she heads for the exit. The outside world is noisy and feels more real, less like a bad parody of itself.
God, he looks sick.
"Hey," she says. She's a tad too abrupt; it sounds more like a demand for attention than a greeting, as if she's caught him red-handed at something. "Are you alright?"
...a slightly pointless question.