Post by Tawny Vokes on Mar 6, 2023 8:52:31 GMT -5
Leasing out a space for her art had always been in Tawny's plans; a dream fantasized about, flirted with, and ultimately slept on for years. There had always been a reason to backburn the notion — the money could be well-spent elsewhere. She needed to save for some upcoming birthday or holiday and couldn't afford the strain on her budget. Perhaps the most enormous of reasons though, was that renting a studio required a level of commitment that, quite frankly, intimidated her. It seemed silly sometimes, to invest in a space intended solely for what amounted to little more than a hobby. Painting didn't pay her bills. And, while her apartment would benefit from the clean-up and the relocation of all her cluttering crafts, what if she lacked the energy and motivation to use the studio enough to make the whole thing worth it?
But when she'd glimpsed the 'For Rent' sign in the storefront window on her commute home from a coffee date, she'd paused. And the small, stooped man sweeping off the steps that led to his apartment above the studio had noted her hesitance. When he hobbled up to her and asked — in very broken English — if she was interested, Tawny had been unable to find a reason to lie. The studio was only a couple blocks away from her own apartment. An easy walk. It wasn't too large nor too small. A peek through the large, street-facing windows revealed very little — the inside space was dark, dusty, and empty. But, in that very brief moment, she could imagine what it might look like once spruced up. How the interior could be completely changed by a fresh coat of paint or perhaps even a mural. Plants along the window ledge. Easels and canvases stacked along the walls. She could build shelves and half-walls. Position herself as she painted so she could draw inspiration from the people passing by.
She'd taken the plunge.
And this morning she'd walked the couple blocks from her apartment with a giddy touch of enthusiasm to her step. She imagined walking the ferrets (or perhaps carrying them in their backpack — it was a little far after all) so they could spend an afternoon, an evening, or a night in the studio. She counted the stores and cafes she passed, trying to gauge which ones she'd end up trying on her journeys between places. And, in her pocket, she fingered the new set of keys she'd be given, pressing her thumb against the ridges with a small, private smile.
When she'd finally approached the new studio, her grin faltered while her gaze flickered across an unexpected mess. A number of nasty slurs were spray-painted across the windows and brick in sloppy, red letters. A sheet of wood was boarded against one part of the window and shattered glass littered the sidewalk beneath it. Tawny felt the blood drain from her face as she stilled, eyes widening.
The little, old man she'd rented from — and was obviously watching for her arrival — made his slow, agonizing way down the steps from his apartment above and began stammering his apologies, eyes frantic and face pinched with sadness. Apparently, it wasn't the first time the studio had been vandalized, likely wouldn't be the last, and he should have been more transparent with her. He would understand if she wanted to back out of the agreement and wouldn't punish her for it.
After a moment, in which Tawny's gaze slowly drew from him to study the vandalism more thoroughly and she took a minute to absorb the extensive damage, she turned back with a soft smile. Assured him it was okay. She let herself be invited up to drink a cup of coffee on his landing. Listened to the stories of his late husband and their immigration to California. And, with an innocuous touch to his arm, she sifted through his memories of the night before. Watched him peek through the blinds of his second-story apartment and dial the police as the group of raucous kids gathered stones and pulled spray cans from their backpacks. Recognized his flinch and the tears blurring his vision at the shattering clash of glass and the laughter that followed. Watched him talk with officers through the night in his bathrobe, tired and sad.
Tawny finished her coffee — slowly, smiling to herself as the old man dozed off and startled awake a couple of times — and excused herself. Volleyed his continued and hurried apologies with persevering reassurance that she'd take care of it and not to worry. And then she'd hopped back down the steps, Googled the nearest hardware store, and began making her way there so she could purchase whatever she needed to start repairs. She imagined the window would have to wait — she couldn't do that herself but maybe Cooper would be willing to help. The least she could do was begin to scrub off the graffiti and clean up the glass.
---
Here's an open (please forgive me for making all my other replies wait as long as they have omg ;v;)! If you're interested but not sure how to squeeze in — I've not given a lot to work with I know lmao — then feel free to instigate some happening. Otherwise, you could run into her on her way to the hardware store, overhear her enter the hardware store and inquire what's best for removing graffiti, catch her on the way back struggling to carry supplies, or just time-skip completely to her trying to scrub the graffiti off lol. Whatever works, I'm flexible!
But when she'd glimpsed the 'For Rent' sign in the storefront window on her commute home from a coffee date, she'd paused. And the small, stooped man sweeping off the steps that led to his apartment above the studio had noted her hesitance. When he hobbled up to her and asked — in very broken English — if she was interested, Tawny had been unable to find a reason to lie. The studio was only a couple blocks away from her own apartment. An easy walk. It wasn't too large nor too small. A peek through the large, street-facing windows revealed very little — the inside space was dark, dusty, and empty. But, in that very brief moment, she could imagine what it might look like once spruced up. How the interior could be completely changed by a fresh coat of paint or perhaps even a mural. Plants along the window ledge. Easels and canvases stacked along the walls. She could build shelves and half-walls. Position herself as she painted so she could draw inspiration from the people passing by.
She'd taken the plunge.
And this morning she'd walked the couple blocks from her apartment with a giddy touch of enthusiasm to her step. She imagined walking the ferrets (or perhaps carrying them in their backpack — it was a little far after all) so they could spend an afternoon, an evening, or a night in the studio. She counted the stores and cafes she passed, trying to gauge which ones she'd end up trying on her journeys between places. And, in her pocket, she fingered the new set of keys she'd be given, pressing her thumb against the ridges with a small, private smile.
When she'd finally approached the new studio, her grin faltered while her gaze flickered across an unexpected mess. A number of nasty slurs were spray-painted across the windows and brick in sloppy, red letters. A sheet of wood was boarded against one part of the window and shattered glass littered the sidewalk beneath it. Tawny felt the blood drain from her face as she stilled, eyes widening.
The little, old man she'd rented from — and was obviously watching for her arrival — made his slow, agonizing way down the steps from his apartment above and began stammering his apologies, eyes frantic and face pinched with sadness. Apparently, it wasn't the first time the studio had been vandalized, likely wouldn't be the last, and he should have been more transparent with her. He would understand if she wanted to back out of the agreement and wouldn't punish her for it.
After a moment, in which Tawny's gaze slowly drew from him to study the vandalism more thoroughly and she took a minute to absorb the extensive damage, she turned back with a soft smile. Assured him it was okay. She let herself be invited up to drink a cup of coffee on his landing. Listened to the stories of his late husband and their immigration to California. And, with an innocuous touch to his arm, she sifted through his memories of the night before. Watched him peek through the blinds of his second-story apartment and dial the police as the group of raucous kids gathered stones and pulled spray cans from their backpacks. Recognized his flinch and the tears blurring his vision at the shattering clash of glass and the laughter that followed. Watched him talk with officers through the night in his bathrobe, tired and sad.
Tawny finished her coffee — slowly, smiling to herself as the old man dozed off and startled awake a couple of times — and excused herself. Volleyed his continued and hurried apologies with persevering reassurance that she'd take care of it and not to worry. And then she'd hopped back down the steps, Googled the nearest hardware store, and began making her way there so she could purchase whatever she needed to start repairs. She imagined the window would have to wait — she couldn't do that herself but maybe Cooper would be willing to help. The least she could do was begin to scrub off the graffiti and clean up the glass.
---
Here's an open (please forgive me for making all my other replies wait as long as they have omg ;v;)! If you're interested but not sure how to squeeze in — I've not given a lot to work with I know lmao — then feel free to instigate some happening. Otherwise, you could run into her on her way to the hardware store, overhear her enter the hardware store and inquire what's best for removing graffiti, catch her on the way back struggling to carry supplies, or just time-skip completely to her trying to scrub the graffiti off lol. Whatever works, I'm flexible!
