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Ryssa and Paris: Doodling

Posted on 2006.01.13 at 00:40
Current Mood: contemplativecontemplative
Current Music: The Rose - Bette Midler
Ryssa sits at the table in the warehouse, her pencils and notes and photographs of Mrs Wilson’s bedroom scattered around. There’s still been no word as to whether they got the contract for the beach house, so when someone called looking for a bedroom makeover, she was happy to take it on.

Paris wanders through with two steaming mugs of coffee and she smiles her thanks, leaving it to cool while she concentrates on what she’s doing. Only her concentration isn’t exactly on the job at hand.

Roses.

A dozen of them.

Red ones.


The 5H pencil in her hand moves over the paper almost of its own accord.

And a card.

“Thank you for a very nice evening – Pete.”

Non-committal.

Nice?

Hmmm.

But roses.

Red ones.


Paris takes a sip of scalding coffee and makes a face. He picks up a sheaf of photographs from a local blacksmith and can see from the first couple that the guy does good work. He glances up at Ryssa who looks as if her mind is a million miles from the design she’s working on. His eyebrow quirks when he sees exactly what she’s drawing.

More than nice.

So was our evening out.

An interesting play.

Good food and wine …


“Ryssa?”

Well, actually, very good food and wine.

And excellent company.

Still don’t know much about him though …


“Didn’t Mrs Wilson say she didn’t want anything flowery?”

“Hmmm?”

“The bedroom design.”

“What about it?”

“It’s, um, got roses all over it.”

That snaps her back. Her cheeks colour at the sight of roses on … everything. She rips the page off her pad and puts it to one side to start again on a fresh one.

“Did you just blush?” He asks with a grin.

“Nope.”

“Do you wanna talk about your rose fixation?” His grin widens.

“Nope.” She goes back to sketching drapes without roses, avoiding his eyes.

“Okay then.” He goes back to looking at pictures of wrought iron gates with a smirk on his face.

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