The shoes are Louboutin. The sunglasses are Celine, cat-eyed and thick-rimmed. Both were on sale, practically a steal. Both feel like a scrap of herself, or the self she was a few years ago, when she could catch a flight to Ibiza for a few days on a superyacht, or to Berlin for an evening in the exclusive Berghain club. Days before daycare dates, nights before spit-up and crying and–– well. One gets luxuries where they can, right?
She has been in much worse places, even if she's been in much better, too. A few hours on a jet, even packed into economy, feels invigorating.
The way her heels sink into the soft spring dirt of this godforsaken Texas campground the very moment she steps out of her cab, far less so.
It doesn't stop her long. She walks on the balls of her feet, chin held high, blonde hair in an artful loose braid slung over one shoulder. She makes her way into the lodge at the park's mouth and she can feel the eyes of the girl at the front desk on her before the door closes behind her. The girl at the desk is plain and wearing a frumpy cardigan but is not altogether unfortunate-looking; Sylvia lowers her sunglasses and locks eyes with her. Must be boring, right? Working all the way out here, on some godforsaken campground, chasing down campers for their overdue "rent" at a paltry $13 a night. And having to live all the way out in the woods! Some of those sites must be so far from civilization! Terrible.
"Can I help you?" the girl asks, with a note of confusion in her voice.
Sylvia can't help but wonder how often her husband lays his eyes on this wretched creature and her chapped lips. Once a week? Twice? It had better not be more than that.
"I am here to see someone," Sylvia announces. "And you are going to tell me what campsite he has parked that hideous retro trailer on so that I can drop in on him."
She has important news to tell him, after all. A simple phone call or email wouldn't do.
That's when the door to the lodge swings open again.
At first, he'd found a nice patch of forest and simply parked the trailer over it: a vast and empty wood 50 miles north of Houston, real quiet, real green. But you don't get water and electric that way, and you've also gotta check which parts, exactly, are blocked off for hunting before some asshat shoots three bullet holes in your door. (And gets pissed at you for scaring off the deer-- seriously, what the fuck?) You'd think after all those years in Santa Destroy an open-carry state wouldn't be shocking, but whatever. You start picking up on campground etiquette real quick, after you break it. After you drift through two, three, five-odd spots.
This new one's not so bad. Full hookups, enough space for his bike, decent-ish wi-fi-- and, most importantly, so deep in the sticks even he wouldn't bother taking a hit on himself. Travis' days meander endlessly, hours of hazy CRT scanlines furrowing afterimages on the inside of his eyelids. Last week, he forgot what year it was and thought about crossing the street to Burger Suplex. He'd feel guiltier about it all if he weren't so comfortable, really.
Then again, one can only get so comfortable.
Heavy footfalls stomp their way up the lodge's steps. The girl at the desk shrinks in her chair as she registers that long-term stay's voice, and soon enough, Travis Touchdown strides through the doors. Complaining at full volume, of course.
"The fuck am I even paying for, if my internet's always getting disconnected?" he seethes; "This is the fifth time this week, how the hell am I supposed to--"
Travis breaks off. For a moment, all he can do is gape at her: a mirage on high heels, maybe, standing before his very eyes.
Meanwhile, the girl at the front desk fidgets. "Uhm." She leans to the left, looking around the displaced model and at the stubbly maniac picking his jaw up off the ground. "Sir? I can call maintenance, but the reception out here, it can get, uhh..."
"Forget it." Abruptly, his expression hardens to stone. "Thought this place was supposed to be discreet?" It's an open enough statement that the third wheel mutters a noncommittal response. But Travis' gaze hasn't strayed from Sylvia since the second he'd noticed her.
Sylvia's gaze is cool, but her mouth is curved into a little smile. How little he's changed, but then again, could she expect anything different? Travis is... well, he's Travis. There is a gulf between them, as there always has been, and that is the way it may always be.
It makes her wonder if she's changed. In her twenties, she felt as though she had all the time and money in the world at her disposal, to primp and exfoliate and luxuriate in spas. Now that it isn't so easy to coax a man into handing over his money by offering to hook a leg around his neck for an evening, do the lines show? Is it obvious, she wonders, that she has spent nights up with babies instead of sunning herself on a beach? God, she'd have a live-in nanny if they didn't cost thousands a month, but instead she's slowly paying the price with her age and beauty.
But what does that matter? Odds are he hasn't looked even an inch north of her cleavage for longer than a second, and if there's one thing she can thank childrearing for, it's the extra cup size. Travis won't mind.
"Discreet? You aren't trying to avoid someone, are you?" she asks, and it comes out, as always, with a teasing lilt.
Sylvia knows him, unfortunately, and she's on the money, as she always is. Only at the sound of her voice does Travis drag his gaze off her chest and up towards her face. He can't name who's made her glasses when he does; she may as well be wearing the same pair from that strange, snowy night in Santa Destroy three (or four? or five?) years ago.
How long has it been since they've been in the same room? Much less touched? He's hardly heard her voice as of late, either: their last phone call had to have been the better part of a month ago. Sylvia's no less beautiful after all this time-- shit, Travis even likes her better with the harshness of perfection sanded down-- but seeing her in the flesh jars him. In his mind's eye, she's eternally that blonde stranger in the bar, offering him the deal of a lifetime. It's harder to ignore the years passing him by when it's his wife, not an agent of the UAA, across the way.
At last, his hard-eyed stare lets up a little. "Who knows?" Travis says carefully. "I was really hoping for some peace and quiet out here, though."
The girl at the desk coughs, the sound weak and half-hearted. "S-sorry, am I... interrupting...?"
"Yup," he replies flatly. "My guest was never here. Got that?" Before she can sputter anything else out, Travis moves to grab the door again and hold it open. He gives Sylvia a meaningful look and an incline of his head: it's far less 'ladies first' than it is 'we're getting the fuck out, five seconds ago'.
"C'mon." Sarcastically, he adds: "We'll take the scenic route."
"I've always wanted to see how people can camp without wanting to end it all," she says as she walks by him, heels clicking on the cheap laminate. She turns her back on him. "So quaint! I do not think I would have it in me."
This is a half-truth. Sylvia has camped. It's just been the sort of camping that prompts a flurry of snapshots on social media: white safari tents on a hardwood platform, wicker porch furniture with plush pink cushions, the doors drawn open to reveal a california king with white bedlinens. Flamingo plushies, one year, golden sunbursts the next.
This is, she's sure, far beyond anything she's about to see.
The moment they're out the door and it closes behind him, she stops walking. Her smile doesn't fade, but there's something more serious in her eyes, in the lift of her chin.
"Yeaaah, I tried that. Fuck that noise," Travis replies breezily. "Any deeper than this is, like, dig a hole in the ground to do your business type stuff. I'll trade risk for plumbing, easy."
Not to mention that he's a lot less concerned with the influencer bit than she is, save for a lone anonymous blog he's keeping up out of boredom. (And a secret Twitter, to cyberstalk his favorite wrestlers-- also out of boredom-- but who's counting.) He's more than content to retreat far, far away from prying eyes, even if it means hiding away somewhere not-so-picturesque.
Travis lingers behind Sylvia for a moment, taking in the view, before he lets his longer strides take him forward a few paces. The scenic route, as it turns out, is a paved-ish rock and gravel path circling around the campground, a little less direct than the straight shot the main road would take. Less exposed, too, but not by much. She's already here; he'll probably have to move again, if she hasn't moved carefully.
There's the crunch of grit under his sneakers and her heels, the faint chitter of insects in the trees. Travis stuffs his hands into his pockets, wracking his brain for something, anything, useful to say.
"Y'know, you can't just drop in on me like this," he grunts. He casts a skeptical glance back at her over his shoulder. "What's the occasion?"
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2022-02-17 03:16 am (UTC)She has been in much worse places, even if she's been in much better, too. A few hours on a jet, even packed into economy, feels invigorating.
The way her heels sink into the soft spring dirt of this godforsaken Texas campground the very moment she steps out of her cab, far less so.
It doesn't stop her long. She walks on the balls of her feet, chin held high, blonde hair in an artful loose braid slung over one shoulder. She makes her way into the lodge at the park's mouth and she can feel the eyes of the girl at the front desk on her before the door closes behind her. The girl at the desk is plain and wearing a frumpy cardigan but is not altogether unfortunate-looking; Sylvia lowers her sunglasses and locks eyes with her. Must be boring, right? Working all the way out here, on some godforsaken campground, chasing down campers for their overdue "rent" at a paltry $13 a night. And having to live all the way out in the woods! Some of those sites must be so far from civilization! Terrible.
"Can I help you?" the girl asks, with a note of confusion in her voice.
Sylvia can't help but wonder how often her husband lays his eyes on this wretched creature and her chapped lips. Once a week? Twice? It had better not be more than that.
"I am here to see someone," Sylvia announces. "And you are going to tell me what campsite he has parked that hideous retro trailer on so that I can drop in on him."
She has important news to tell him, after all. A simple phone call or email wouldn't do.
That's when the door to the lodge swings open again.
no subject
Date: 2022-02-17 09:43 am (UTC)This new one's not so bad. Full hookups, enough space for his bike, decent-ish wi-fi-- and, most importantly, so deep in the sticks even he wouldn't bother taking a hit on himself. Travis' days meander endlessly, hours of hazy CRT scanlines furrowing afterimages on the inside of his eyelids. Last week, he forgot what year it was and thought about crossing the street to Burger Suplex. He'd feel guiltier about it all if he weren't so comfortable, really.
Then again, one can only get so comfortable.
Heavy footfalls stomp their way up the lodge's steps. The girl at the desk shrinks in her chair as she registers that long-term stay's voice, and soon enough, Travis Touchdown strides through the doors. Complaining at full volume, of course.
"The fuck am I even paying for, if my internet's always getting disconnected?" he seethes; "This is the fifth time this week, how the hell am I supposed to--"
Travis breaks off. For a moment, all he can do is gape at her: a mirage on high heels, maybe, standing before his very eyes.
Meanwhile, the girl at the front desk fidgets. "Uhm." She leans to the left, looking around the displaced model and at the stubbly maniac picking his jaw up off the ground. "Sir? I can call maintenance, but the reception out here, it can get, uhh..."
"Forget it." Abruptly, his expression hardens to stone. "Thought this place was supposed to be discreet?" It's an open enough statement that the third wheel mutters a noncommittal response. But Travis' gaze hasn't strayed from Sylvia since the second he'd noticed her.
no subject
Date: 2022-02-18 04:22 am (UTC)It makes her wonder if she's changed. In her twenties, she felt as though she had all the time and money in the world at her disposal, to primp and exfoliate and luxuriate in spas. Now that it isn't so easy to coax a man into handing over his money by offering to hook a leg around his neck for an evening, do the lines show? Is it obvious, she wonders, that she has spent nights up with babies instead of sunning herself on a beach? God, she'd have a live-in nanny if they didn't cost thousands a month, but instead she's slowly paying the price with her age and beauty.
But what does that matter? Odds are he hasn't looked even an inch north of her cleavage for longer than a second, and if there's one thing she can thank childrearing for, it's the extra cup size. Travis won't mind.
"Discreet? You aren't trying to avoid someone, are you?" she asks, and it comes out, as always, with a teasing lilt.
no subject
Date: 2022-02-21 07:37 am (UTC)How long has it been since they've been in the same room? Much less touched? He's hardly heard her voice as of late, either: their last phone call had to have been the better part of a month ago. Sylvia's no less beautiful after all this time-- shit, Travis even likes her better with the harshness of perfection sanded down-- but seeing her in the flesh jars him. In his mind's eye, she's eternally that blonde stranger in the bar, offering him the deal of a lifetime. It's harder to ignore the years passing him by when it's his wife, not an agent of the UAA, across the way.
At last, his hard-eyed stare lets up a little. "Who knows?" Travis says carefully. "I was really hoping for some peace and quiet out here, though."
The girl at the desk coughs, the sound weak and half-hearted. "S-sorry, am I... interrupting...?"
"Yup," he replies flatly. "My guest was never here. Got that?" Before she can sputter anything else out, Travis moves to grab the door again and hold it open. He gives Sylvia a meaningful look and an incline of his head: it's far less 'ladies first' than it is 'we're getting the fuck out, five seconds ago'.
"C'mon." Sarcastically, he adds: "We'll take the scenic route."
no subject
Date: 2022-03-03 03:52 am (UTC)This is a half-truth. Sylvia has camped. It's just been the sort of camping that prompts a flurry of snapshots on social media: white safari tents on a hardwood platform, wicker porch furniture with plush pink cushions, the doors drawn open to reveal a california king with white bedlinens. Flamingo plushies, one year, golden sunbursts the next.
This is, she's sure, far beyond anything she's about to see.
The moment they're out the door and it closes behind him, she stops walking. Her smile doesn't fade, but there's something more serious in her eyes, in the lift of her chin.
"I thought you'd be deeper off the grid."
no subject
Date: 2022-03-09 01:56 am (UTC)Not to mention that he's a lot less concerned with the influencer bit than she is, save for a lone anonymous blog he's keeping up out of boredom. (And a secret Twitter, to cyberstalk his favorite wrestlers-- also out of boredom-- but who's counting.) He's more than content to retreat far, far away from prying eyes, even if it means hiding away somewhere not-so-picturesque.
Travis lingers behind Sylvia for a moment, taking in the view, before he lets his longer strides take him forward a few paces. The scenic route, as it turns out, is a paved-ish rock and gravel path circling around the campground, a little less direct than the straight shot the main road would take. Less exposed, too, but not by much. She's already here; he'll probably have to move again, if she hasn't moved carefully.
There's the crunch of grit under his sneakers and her heels, the faint chitter of insects in the trees. Travis stuffs his hands into his pockets, wracking his brain for something, anything, useful to say.
"Y'know, you can't just drop in on me like this," he grunts. He casts a skeptical glance back at her over his shoulder. "What's the occasion?"