“Oh! Birdie, I—I definitely lost a contact, it’s—oh god, I think it’s going behind my eye!” Sarah-Jane Dorkins leans in close to the mirror, finger dragging down her bottom eyelid. This color-changing contact lens Birdie insisted she try tonight is definitely working its way under her eye, and she never even wanted to try it in the first place.
“Don’t worry about it,” Birdie Beridze calls back. “I’ve got plenty more where that came from.” Birdie sweeps into the room, two martinis in hand, with all that glamorous confidence Sarah-Jane could never even dream of having. Even her apartment here felt so much more exciting than her own; she had a rack of designer cocktail dresses where Sarah-Jane kept her good vacuum cleaner, she had costume jewelry that looked stolen from a movie set, she had an autograph from—okay, a lot of people that aren’t all that familiar to her, actually, but still!
Sarah-Jane lets go of her eyelid, but doesn’t relax, and there’s no way she’s going to stop worrying about it. “Okay, well, does it come out eventually?” she asks and grabs for her purse, upending it all over Birdie’s vanity. Junk scatters across the glassy surface, three chapsticks roll to the ground, an airpod and bottle of Wizine roll behind the vanity altogether. “Am I stuck with this thing buried behind my eye forever while it just, like, detaches my retinas for me?”
Birdie sips at one of the martinis, but Sarah-Jane doesn’t need input to spiral out, and she also really doesn’t want to lose that airpod. Also that Wizine! Do you know how much of that she’ll need after finally ripping this stupid contact lens out? She grabs onto the vanity and pulls it outward, sending more of her purse contents all over the floor. It doesn’t matter, because she can get all of these things, she can fix it all herself, she can clean up any mess, because she is Sarah-Jane Dorkins, goddammit.
Or, well. Sarah-Jane Grossweiner now, probably.
She stops, kneeling on the floor, surrounded by her purse shit. “Goddammit, I don’t want to be a Grossweiner again,” she wails and throws her hands to her side. Birdie sets a martini glass on the vanity, leans against it, and… stops there, frozen completely in time.
MEMORY: Girls Night!
[CRITERIA: Minimum 6 Replies]
“Oh! Birdie, I—I definitely lost a contact, it’s—oh god, I think it’s going behind my eye!” Sarah-Jane Dorkins leans in close to the mirror, finger dragging down her bottom eyelid. This color-changing contact lens Birdie insisted she try tonight is definitely working its way under her eye, and she never even wanted to try it in the first place.
“Don’t worry about it,” Birdie Beridze calls back. “I’ve got plenty more where that came from.” Birdie sweeps into the room, two martinis in hand, with all that glamorous confidence Sarah-Jane could never even dream of having. Even her apartment here felt so much more exciting than her own; she had a rack of designer cocktail dresses where Sarah-Jane kept her good vacuum cleaner, she had costume jewelry that looked stolen from a movie set, she had an autograph from—okay, a lot of people that aren’t all that familiar to her, actually, but still!
Sarah-Jane lets go of her eyelid, but doesn’t relax, and there’s no way she’s going to stop worrying about it. “Okay, well, does it come out eventually?” she asks and grabs for her purse, upending it all over Birdie’s vanity. Junk scatters across the glassy surface, three chapsticks roll to the ground, an airpod and bottle of Wizine roll behind the vanity altogether. “Am I stuck with this thing buried behind my eye forever while it just, like, detaches my retinas for me?”
Birdie sips at one of the martinis, but Sarah-Jane doesn’t need input to spiral out, and she also really doesn’t want to lose that airpod. Also that Wizine! Do you know how much of that she’ll need after finally ripping this stupid contact lens out? She grabs onto the vanity and pulls it outward, sending more of her purse contents all over the floor. It doesn’t matter, because she can get all of these things, she can fix it all herself, she can clean up any mess, because she is Sarah-Jane Dorkins, goddammit.
Or, well. Sarah-Jane Grossweiner now, probably.
She stops, kneeling on the floor, surrounded by her purse shit. “Goddammit, I don’t want to be a Grossweiner again,” she wails and throws her hands to her side. Birdie sets a martini glass on the vanity, leans against it, and… stops there, frozen completely in time.