if we ever stop talking, sing me a song
Opening her closet door, for a moment the pastel dresses and perfectly colour-coordinated shoes seem foreign and impractical as they stare at her from the dark. It's only as her hand reaches out automatically to select a cheerful yellow a-line number with lace applique, that everything feels like it should. Dressing quickly—bra, panties, slip, stockings, dress, shoes—Tobi pulls her hair back into a long ponytail before fanning her lashes with mascara and applying a bit of blush to her cheeks. Not too much of course; her dress was perhaps two fingers shorter than was strictly modest, and so she could do without lipstick. Grabbing a piece of toast on her way out and murmuring a quick apology to Mrs. Jours who owned the building, Tobi is off.
The building is easy to find but as there's no one tending the elevator Tobi opts for the stairs. Despite the length of her heels she makes quick work of it and arrives into a bland and uninviting corridor hardly out of breath. Still, she takes a moment to settle herself—smoothing down her dress and making sure her hair was just so—before straightening her chin and knocking assertively on door 302.
The building is easy to find but as there's no one tending the elevator Tobi opts for the stairs. Despite the length of her heels she makes quick work of it and arrives into a bland and uninviting corridor hardly out of breath. Still, she takes a moment to settle herself—smoothing down her dress and making sure her hair was just so—before straightening her chin and knocking assertively on door 302.
October
