gracefully ungraceful [awry] Jun 3, 2011 13:49:32 GMT -5
Post by acacia on Jun 3, 2011 13:49:32 GMT -5
not every girl can manage
................................................................Well, surely, it wasn't that bad. She stared down at the boiling contents of the old pan from a distance. Stooping on the tip of her toes, she stared down at it and arched her brows for a while. It was brownish in colour and looked nothing like the glamorous picture printed on the cookbook. Surely, it seemed rather dull as well and she could perceive some tiny bits of carrot floating on the surface, like pieces of rubbish on a puddle of rain water. She pursed her lips, tilting her head ever so slightly. Why, yes, it was a failure - but not quite as much of a failure as she had expected it to be. And she took comfort on its smell: rather pungent, yes, tickling her nostrils and threatening to make her sneeze; yet it was not the rancid stench she had otherwise expected to produce. Her kitchen was not entirely doomed, it seemed. And she would have something to eat, after all. See? It was really not that bad.
A sigh of humble self-satisfaction and a turn of her heels to lean against the balcony. Never before had she thought cooking to be such a draining experience. A damp wave of heat poised about the kitchen like stormy clouds and seemed to trace several streams of sweat down her forehead and bare shoulders. She wiped her lips with the back of her left hand, feeling suddenly dirty and old - unbearably old; and she was merely twenty two, the little thing. Cooking experiences, no more; that's for certain. Another sigh and she let her head drop in defeat. Her eyes roamed about the shabby state of her clothes. The same ones of the previous day. And the day before and the day before that and the past week as a whole, maybe. She had barely bathed in the meantime. Heavens, I'm a basket case. She rubbed her feet together, tiny toes against tiny toes, cuddling to each other.
Nearly three weeks since she had moved in and the deplorable girl had yet to leave her chambers. That is, for anything else other than grocery shopping - although she put little effort into this one task as well and her fridge seemed to be perpetually empty. Regardless, with summer break stealing her prospect students and supplying her with enormous amounts of free time, she wandered about the flat like a ghost: clad in a drab tank top much too big for her figure and a pair of blue shorts with some indistinct embroidery that had long faded. Tight grey stockings circled round her legs, deteriorating a bit, but just a bit, really, upon the knees. If ever she had to go out, she would simply shove her feet inside a pair of old converse sneakers and run her fingers hurriedly through the maze of her hair, approaching a state of semi-decency which sufficed for grocery shopping and nothing more.
She poured the slightly disgusting but apparently edible soup - or what was supposed to be soup - into a small bowl, sitting down at her minute kitchen table, with a spoon on her hands. Well, she wouldn't dare to get her hopes too high, but her stomach seemed to be eager for a taste of the wretched thing nonetheless.
A single gulf of it and... fucking shit! The plate was immediately rejected with a strong push of repulse and up went the lame cook towards the sink. A fit of cough followed for the next thirty seconds or so, her stomach, however empty, seemed to flood with regret; yet nothing came out of her lips aside from air itself, thankfully. The remains of the clearly-non-edible soup went down the drain soon afterwards, as the mere smell of its presence now caused her guts to tangle in painful knots. And she sighed, frustrated and queasy and hungry, all at once. Well, cookbooks were now officially out of bounds. And, considering the overwhelming nothingness that filled her cabins, she decided it was reasonable - and perhaps safer - to look for nourishment outside the flat. However, she might need to change for it... At that, her eyes fell once more upon the dreadful state of her clothes. Seconds of awkward silence. Yes, alright, she simply had to change.______________
With her hair caught up in a ridiculous pony tail and her bony figure now clad in a loose cotton dress that reached just a tad above her knees (smelling of soap - a fragrance she had almost forgotten), she wandered out of her new home and onto the open streets. Not one to be too picky, she soon found herself inside the very first coffeehouse that happened to cross her way. Maybe she wouldn't have a proper dinner in there, but a croissant would surely suffice. And so she sat, quite gracefully, on one of the small empty tables, leaning back on her seat as she opened the menu like a book. Food poetry - if such a thing even existed.tagged: conor | words: 841