( it takes her a long time to decide what to wear, which is not ordinarily such a problem for parisa — it's not like she was lacking in luggage she brought with her to saltburnt. more, the situation is off. new. obviously she's met gale before, when she was young and fresh faced and high off her own youth, in twirling skirts and bowed necklaces, when chanel was still a popular thing for young people to wear. now? she's outgrown her femininity, to some extent. she isn't young. she stopped finding animal print ironically chic. she's a different version of herself than the one gale married, which is suitable enough, because she certainly didn't marry a priest, which means gale changed, too.
she knows armand would suggest something devastating. low cut or tight fit, something she can pour herself into, something to feel good in. but it's also a church, and too much skin could be considered tacky, so.
ultimately, she's in a crafted suit, artfully tailored to fit her. heels, as ever, to be something resembling a normal height. churches, even chapels, always remind her of her wedding — picking a venue out with gale, gale explaining the stained glass to her with his hands on her waist, chin over her head. here, jesus turns the water into wine and here is saint michael with the sword. she doesn't try to think about it, but it's clear by the outline of him in the multicolored light, with the cruxification of christ looking down at him — she knows his form. intimately. often people, even those closest to her, remark on how cold she always is, how unaffected she'd been by their separation. it's not true. even now, parisa remembers old dreams she had of their future, and realizes in another life, she might've seen all these new changes overtake gale. the gray in his hair, the additive lines in his eyes. smiling, always. she might've decided to grow old with him.
as it is, she doesn't look much different than he last saw her. the grays have been plucked and colored in — the lines soothed out with injectables. botox is closer to godliness than whatever this is, she thinks, but only to be edgy. )
What's the word, then?
( she tries to imagine what gale looks like, speaking his sermons — fondness creeps into her features, because she imagines he loves it. stepping aside from the pew, she leaves him be, approaching the altar and taking in all the mystical details of catholicism in the artworks, the displays, the gilded trinkets. )
I always thought churches were peaceful. ( she glances over her shoulder, offering an olive branch of a smile. ) At least until my uncle threatened to gut you and your Christian God after being shushed in the pews. Haven't seen much of him, since.
no subject
she knows armand would suggest something devastating. low cut or tight fit, something she can pour herself into, something to feel good in. but it's also a church, and too much skin could be considered tacky, so.
ultimately, she's in a crafted suit, artfully tailored to fit her. heels, as ever, to be something resembling a normal height. churches, even chapels, always remind her of her wedding — picking a venue out with gale, gale explaining the stained glass to her with his hands on her waist, chin over her head. here, jesus turns the water into wine and here is saint michael with the sword. she doesn't try to think about it, but it's clear by the outline of him in the multicolored light, with the cruxification of christ looking down at him — she knows his form. intimately. often people, even those closest to her, remark on how cold she always is, how unaffected she'd been by their separation. it's not true. even now, parisa remembers old dreams she had of their future, and realizes in another life, she might've seen all these new changes overtake gale. the gray in his hair, the additive lines in his eyes. smiling, always. she might've decided to grow old with him.
as it is, she doesn't look much different than he last saw her. the grays have been plucked and colored in — the lines soothed out with injectables. botox is closer to godliness than whatever this is, she thinks, but only to be edgy. )
What's the word, then?
( she tries to imagine what gale looks like, speaking his sermons — fondness creeps into her features, because she imagines he loves it. stepping aside from the pew, she leaves him be, approaching the altar and taking in all the mystical details of catholicism in the artworks, the displays, the gilded trinkets. )
I always thought churches were peaceful. ( she glances over her shoulder, offering an olive branch of a smile. ) At least until my uncle threatened to gut you and your Christian God after being shushed in the pews. Haven't seen much of him, since.