ArchivedLogs:Exhale

Exhale
Dramatis Personae Jim, Melinda
In Absentia	2013-10-21 '
Location <NYC> Village Lofts - Laundry Room - East Village
This laundry room looks as many laundry rooms do. Fluorescent lights a little too-bright, linoleum floor is chipping, lint-dusty and occasionally stained sticky with spilled detergent. A broom and dustpan in one corner encourage its users to contribute to its cleanliness, which they do with intermittent conscientiousness. A bank of quarter-fed washing machines along the wall have clear windows on their doors to watch the laundry spin and turn within. On the wall opposite, a matching row of dryers near-perpetually has at least one out of commission. A rickety folding table and chairs at one side provide a place to sit and wait. There's a dispenser on the wall that will provide single-use sized packets of detergent or fabric softener, but it is hit or miss whether it is ever in stock. The night is crisp and getting cooler, but the laundry room in the Village Lofts is kept nice, humid, and toasty by the constantly tumbling dryers that seem to always be in use, what with the influx of new 'visitors' upstairs. Melinda is doing her part, hefting down an over large basket of clothing in through the front door, the clothes inside nearly over flowing the top. Against her side bangs a bottle of detergent and other washing paraphernalia in a reusable shopping bag on her shoulder. She moves in, humming quietly to herself as she bumps into a machine as she passes, eyeing the washers and looking for at least two empty ones to use. The basked is set down with a thump and she stands up straight, pressing her hands to her lower back and letting out a soft exclamation of annoyance at the stiffness there in. Then, she brushes her hands against the baggy sweats she is wearing, straightening them out after the lip on the basket threatened to pull them down. Over these navy blue sweats is a long sleeved baseball tee in forest green (sleeves) and dark gray (body). Her hair is pulled out of her way in a messy pony tail at the nape of her neck, the length doubled over in the back to spray the back of her head in stray ends and to keep the mane shorter and at bay. She pulls open one of the washers and starts stuffing in clothing, not really bothering to sort the colors and simply hoping for the best, as it were. Not like the 'brights' have a lot left to bleed out at this stage in their life. Kind of like Jim - WHUMP. That's the sound of his hand slamming into the doorframe. It might look kind of menacing, the way his arm is thrown out, his big shoulders filling up the exit, if he didn't have a FIXED wide-eyed stare that more suggests he... kind of just almost fell there. Jesus. Good thing he has no pride left to speak of, coming the rest of the way into the laundry room BRUSHING at his shirt front. It's a button-up. It has - patterns on it, but they're kind of faded out. It might be paisley. Melinda jumps when a figure whumps into the door way and partially blocks it. She turns toward that egress and frowns, her expression dark and perturbed. The look dissipates after a moment, the wrinkles in her brow smoothing, the arch on the left side of her mouth uncurling. She studies him for a moment and then finishes her work, stuffing clothes inside, adding soap, and finally, adding coins. Then buttons are mashed to start the machine in its chugging. All things done, she kicks the basket out of the way and walks up to Jim, looking him over. The basket thumps up against Jim's wooden... legs. He stands fast and takes it kind of without noticing beyond the general ornery reflexive KICK he gives it right BACK, sending it clattering towards the wall. He's more watching Melinda like. With his brow furrowed. The quiet in the laundry room isn't absolute; it's cluttered and thumps and hums and sloshes with washers in the balmy heat. It may as well be Showdown music, for the way Jim's eyes twitch narrow. His hands cram in his pockets. Melinda draws in a deep breath and looks down at Jim's legs when the basket clunks up against them. She lets the breath out slowly as she draws near, leaning over to get a look at those wooden legs, her lips pursing in thought. She stands up again, looks him in the eyes and raises a hand to touch his chest, feeling the texture under the fabric. AghlghalgSMACK. Jim flails his arms when Melinda COMES AT HIM, fending off her groping with his head squeezed up and turned away like he can't bear to LOOK. Melinda lets out a tiny squawk of annoyance and eyes Jim with a determined look. Then she reaches out to pin his arms to his sides. She doesn't use strength and it takes her simply forever to capture his wrists in her hands, but she does and she gently guides them down to his sides. Her lips purse harder as she reaches out once more for his chest, still looking to case his health with her fingertips. Jim frowns so hard it looks like he's PULLING something in his neck tendons, scruffy jaw shoved forward - FINE. If Melinda gets to touch chests so does he. Honk! Yeah. He just HONKED her. Grimly. Melinda's hands move down Jim's front too quickly to be sultry, but too slow to be frisking him. She simply moves them across the bulk of his body until she finds the ugly twisted knot, just above his belt line. She moves her other hand off and continues to probe it with one hand before taking another deep breath and moving that hand to the back of her neck. She itches at the mess of hair clustered there and exhales. Her eyes close as she rubs at her forehead and the bridge of her nose, moving away now and settling into one of the chairs, leaning heavily into it. Touch is often strange with the Morlock; patches of Jim are skin, human flesh that's warm and gives to touch, that springs when muscles move and twists around bones beneath; others plant, rough bark that catches on the material of his shirt, stranger more fibrous texture like - celery? Jim's quintessential THRASHING and carrying on just - slumps, when Melinda moves away. His hand raises, presses against against the side of his abdomen, eyes fixed narrow at the far wall. Melinda calms herself a bit and relaxes her posture, before leaning over and dragging the bag with the laundry detergent back over to her feet. She fishes around inside it and pulls back. Her arm moves out across the table and she scuffs a small package onto its surface, the sound of plastic against the veneered cardboard not quite scratching, but certainly making some noise. When she pulls her hand away, it's a pack of Jim's favorite cigarettes that remains. Her foot moves and kicks the other chair out to give the man a place to sit. For a long while, Jim doesn't seem to notice the smokes, or the chair. There's a box of fabric softener sitting on the edge of the washer, threatening to topple off the edge as it churn-washes, and he's watching it. Then... exhales. Sixth sense for cheap cigarettes lands his hand atop the pack without looking at it, dragging it into his possession and dropping heavily into the seat Melinda kicked out. He taps the pack hard against his opposite hand, looking down at it as though he were alone here in the room. Then flips it open, lips out the butt. Indoors, there's no sense in lighting it, but he closes the pack against and tosses it back on the table. Leans back in his seat to look up at the window with the smoke unlit. And just... EXHALES.