what an odd time for the naturally nocturnal Ayla Malone to be up at. It was Monday, she was opening the shop this morning extra early so she could finally get around to sorting out the rubbish laying around the back office. Sighing, she pulled the blanket away from her body and got out of bed, slipping her feet into her moccasin-like slippers. Moving away from her bed and away from the temptation of falling back into it and sleeping for another hour, Ayla pulled on her deep purple robe and tied it loosely around her waist. She stepped over and around the scattered papers filled to the edges with designs and shapes, colors splashed all around or simply black and white.
Entering the en-suite bathroom, Ayla cast a slightly timid gaze to the mirror that took up nearly the entire wall adjacent from the shower. Ayla saw last night's make-up running down her face and smudged around her eyes, her lipstick was travelling up her cheek, and there was ... oh lord, was that a hickey on her neck?! craning her head to the side, Ayla gasped when she saw that she had two deep red hickeys on her neck, and growled slightly. next time theres a block party down on staten island, she was going to bring finn whether he wanted to go or not. Turning to the shower, the redheaded Irish girl turned the water on, running her fingers through the spray.
Today was going to be long. Once the water was at the right temperature, Ayla dropped her robe and stepped out of her bed shorts and tank, stepping into the water as it washed away last night's filth. Ayla was quick in the shower, lathering her hair and washing it away before she dutifully scrubbed her skin and tried vainly to wash the hickies away. When it only resulted in a spread out bruise like shape, the Irish girl sighed and turned the water off, stepping out and wrapping a fluffy towel around herself. Make-up would be her best friend today. Once she had towel-dried her hair, she let it hang loose around her shoulders as she returned to her room and picked out her clothing for the day.
Clothing for Ayla was usually never a problem; nine times out of ten she threw on jogging pants and a tank top but today she decided that today wasn't a sweats and tank day. Ayla - with the towel still wrapped around herself - picked out a pair of light washed jeans, a white tank, her favourite loose top, and her purple trench coat. Getting dressed, Ayla looked over at the clock. It was now 6.24am. So she took longer than she thought getting ready. It didn't matter; Ayla would find herself at the tattoo shop nearly an hour before she had to open. Besides, it was her shop. She could pretty much open whenever.
Creeping out of her room, the redhead was careful not to wake her twin sister or her father who slept at opposite ends of the hallway. Sprinting down the stairs at a light foot gait, she stopped at the front door and slipped her flats on, grabbing her wallet from the dry bowl that she routinely dropped it in and unlocked the front door. Ayla didn't have her drivers permit because ... well, when you live in New York, the subway or taxis served the same purpose, and most times they were faster than a car. Leaving her house she quickly walked with her head down, making sure no one saw her leave her home.
Long story short, after a rather stop and go taxi ride, Ayla Malone arrived at Klover Company Tattoo Parlor around 7am. Digging her keys out of her pocket, she unlocked the gate, unlocked the door, and walked into her shop, flipping the open sign on. Hanging her purple coat in the closet, she picked up the broom and began to sweep, sighing slightly. Unsure of the appointments today, Ayla cast her eyes over to the counter, wondering if anyone had taken it home or had left it out again.
Member No.: 6
Joined: 28-January 12
what about the ending?
"See you later!" were the three words that Dominique Joelle Saphylon tossed over her shoulder as she pushed her way out of the small diner, bell tinkling overhead to emphasize her departure. The door fell shut behind her and she stood stock-still for a moment on the cement sidewalk as the wind blew her golden-blonde curls off to the right.
God, as if that hadn't been embarrassing. She could have sworn that she'd been scheduled for the morning shift, but according to Thorne, she wasn't supposed to come into the Diner until two o'clock in the afternoon. And so, with her morning suddenly free, she turned and began to walk. It was winter, but a somewhat sunny day for the time of year -- with no coat to draw tighter around her, she hurried down the street in the direction of her apartment building.
Seven minutes later, she was out on the sidewalk again, having switched her big purse for a guitar case. Deciding on a windswept street corner outside a tattoo parlor at the other end of the block, she set off, accidentally knocking peoples' knees with the bulky case until she reached her destination. A bench sat unoccupied just to the left of the door; Dominique sat down on one end, opening her guitar case and pulling out the beautiful acoustic guitar that her parents had given her for Christmas ten years ago. She laid it gently across her knees, brushed a stray lock of hair from her eyes, and strummed lightly on the guitar's strings, as if to test it, to make sure it worked before she really began.
Gaze traveling over the people passing by -- ignoring her, for the most part -- she began to play, then to sing, voice slipping from her lips as easily as her fingers manipulated the guitar strings. "Last night I heard my own heartbeat, and it sounded like footsteps on my stairs. Six months gone, and I'm still reaching, even though I know you're not there..."
Someone dropped a couple of coins in her open guitar case. That wasn't what she did this for, although she had to admit that the fact that people seemed to like the songs she sang was an added bonus. "I was playing back a thousand memories, baby, thinkin' 'bout everything we've been through. Maybe I've been going back too much lately, to when time stood still and I had you..." As the song slanted up towards the chorus, Dom drew a couple more glances from the people walking past her. She smiled softly at them.
"Come back, come back, come back to me like you would, you would if this was a movie. Stand in the rain outside 'til I come out. Come back, come back, come back to me like you could, you could if you just said you're sorry. I know that we could work it out somehow. But if this was a movie, you'd be here right now..."
Picking up the dustban that had some dirt left over from last night's sweeping, Ayla faced the daunting challenge that was cleaning her shop on her own, first thing in the morning. Cleaning had never been a strong point for the young Irish heiress; with nannies and general house staff cleaning up after her messes, she was nearly ten when her father decided that he would cut his ties with the staff of the house to teach her how to clean. Ayla learned fast, but she wasn't a good cleaner, usually giving up fifteen minutes into it. Unlike those days though, Ayla was focused and found herself humming a tune she had heard in a cab some days ago.
With this tattoo shop came a lot of personal changing that Ayla had to agree to. For one, she had to clean up her own messes, in the shop or out of the shop. She had property clean up to look after her shifts too, and if someone forgot to clean their mess or intentionally left it for Ayla to clean, she'd have to clean it. Dirty needles were disposed of when they were used, and they were picked up every two days. Sure it was an additional charge, but Ayla wasn't going to run just an average 'run-of-the-mill' tattoo parlor. She was going to have the best, - or at most the cleanest. Finishing the front waiting area, Ayla re-organized the magazines and returned to the back of the shop, signing at the mess one of the artists had left behind.
As Ayla returned to the front of the parlor to gather the trash bin, a soft strumming from outside caught her attention. It was quite a lovely melody. Ayla looked over her shoulder at the mess she still had to clean, and decided that since she still had a hour or so before she had to actually clean it, she would investigate where the music was coming from. Putting her broom against the corner, she grabbed her keys and stepped out of the shop, locking the door behind her. Thankfully the closed sign was still flipped, so she wouldn't worry about anyone breaking in.
Wandering up the street slightly, Ayla was surprised to see that someone was playing a guitar; a girl was playing a guitar, her voice was very professional, sweet and had that 'it' factor that would help her get out of this city if that was her plan. Ayla was instantly struck with both amazement and jealousy; not only had she wanted to learn how to play the guitar like that, but she knew that she had very minimal musical skills, since most of the artistic skill she posessed went into tattooing. Leaning against the side of the building, just behind the girl, Ayla cleared her throat.
"Y'know, playin' out here ain't smart," Ayla said quietly, glancing at her nails as she stayed behind the girl. "These streets ain't a nice place for a girl like you," You could immediately tell she was Irish; her accent was heavy enough to give her away, but not strong enough that you couldn't understand her. Rough from a brief stint with cigarettes, Ayla's voice was easy to pick out in a crowd.
Member No.: 6
Joined: 28-January 12
what about the ending?
"I know people change and these things happen, but I remember how it was back then. Wrapped up in your arms and our friends were laughing 'cause nothing like this ever happened to them..." Another coin or two dropped into her guitar case, then a crumpled dollar bill. "Now I'm pacing down the hall, chasing down your street. Flashback to the night when you said to me that nothing's gonna change, not for me and you, not before I knew --"
"Y'know, playin' out here ain't smart."
The voice that sounded behind her -- suddenly, a girl's voice with a lilting Irish accent, strangely raspy in comparison to her own -- caused Dom's fingers to slip, her words to cut off; the guitar strings made an unsatisfactory, downright horrible noise as she turned, still sitting, blonde curls flying out around her.
The girl who leaned against the wall behind her had long, dark red hair and eyes somewhere between hazel and brown -- she was pretty, Dom decided, although the girl looked younger than herself. "These streets ain't a nice place for a girl like you."
Resisting a snort of laughter, Dom raised one eyebrow and asked coolly, "As in... just this street? Or the whole city?" Her guitar rested across her lap, unnaturally silent, and she didn't like it. The redheaded girl had interrupted her -- and in the middle of a phrase, too. It had been rude."I've played here before and made it out unscathed. But, uh... thanks?"