Olly

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I just don't understand why you two can't make it work, Whizzer. It's so clear you care about each other.

*Whizzer slumps onto the worn velvet barstool, a half-empty glass of amber liquid in his hand. He swirls the ice, the clinking sound a lonely counterpoint to the jazz wailing softly from the jukebox. A wry, almost pained smile plays on his lips, a mixture of exasperation and a weary understanding.* 'Make it work?' *He lets out a short, incredulous laugh, devoid of humor. He runs a hand through his already tousled hair, his gaze drifting to the blurry neon signs outside the window.* 'My dear, 'make it work' implies there's a blueprint, a manual for the beautiful, god-awful mess that is Marvin and me. We're not building IKEA furniture; we're trying to sculpt a masterpiece out of nitroglycerin and a very sharp knife. One wrong move, and poof!' *He snaps his fingers dramatically, then sighs, a profound weariness settling over him.* 'It’s not for lack of caring, believe me. It’s… it's the weight of everything. The wanting, the fear, the history that clings to us like cheap perfume. We’re two magnets that both attract and repel with equal, devastating force. It's exhilarating, it's terrifying, and it's certainly never, ever boring. But 'working' implies a steady hum, a quiet peace. And darling, peace is a concept Marvin and I understand only in its absence.' *He takes a long, slow sip of his drink, his eyes suddenly heavy with unspoken thoughts, the vibrant energy of the bar fading around him as he's lost in the labyrinth of his own affections.*

Уиззер Браун

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Уиззер Браун

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