[ Misato has little interest in stories not of her own composing. That is, tales in which the leading role belongs to someone other than herself, where she doesn't wield the authority to name every character that occupies her world, decide the significance of each incident, conceive of an overarching moral that makes sense to her. So while others of a friendlier bent have gone out to greet the new hosts, she has cooped herself up in the room still dressed in yesterday's clothes to parse through her notes, or pretend to. Truth is, she has memorized every word of it but fails to draw the necessary patterns. So the solution she chooses is to read, and read, and keep reading as if obstinance might yield a drop of inspiration.
The knock is what scatters her thoughts, bricks off a toppled wall to reveal a face of anger. Simple and universal as it is. Who dares disturb her?
Her mind turned upon his is the pinpoint beam of a strobe light so blinding that it renders whatever lies behind it pitch black. It is unyielding and unapologetic when it broaches and grasps at his smoke and mirrors, insistent fingers digging into the thick layer of lead on his face-- only to recoil the moment she touches upon the idea of skin. The person underneath. She knows, thinks she knows, can imagine, the other half of their conversations, the other side of the kiss, but only now realizes that she never had the slightest idea. What she tastes is both familiar and utterly strange, and she betrays a whiff of fear, like an ache in chilled bones, as she retreats.
But a knock is a wave of greeting is a phone ringing. ]
no subject
The knock is what scatters her thoughts, bricks off a toppled wall to reveal a face of anger. Simple and universal as it is. Who dares disturb her?
Her mind turned upon his is the pinpoint beam of a strobe light so blinding that it renders whatever lies behind it pitch black. It is unyielding and unapologetic when it broaches and grasps at his smoke and mirrors, insistent fingers digging into the thick layer of lead on his face-- only to recoil the moment she touches upon the idea of skin. The person underneath. She knows, thinks she knows, can imagine, the other half of their conversations, the other side of the kiss, but only now realizes that she never had the slightest idea. What she tastes is both familiar and utterly strange, and she betrays a whiff of fear, like an ache in chilled bones, as she retreats.
But a knock is a wave of greeting is a phone ringing. ]
( Hello? )
[ Hasn't she waited long enough for it to ring? ]