Stepping onto the porch, a deep breath of cool sea air; the gentle breeze tickled, Fiona jumped excitedly, ready for her walk with Vicky. She’d made a healthy breakfast, coffee by the bed to wake Ziva, and looked to the best part of the day. Ziva groaned; years of parties meant she hated mornings, Vicky in contrast; thrived on the dawn, a habit that increased with the puppy companion. A brisk walk stimulated the mind; her imagination opened, ready to create art. Brindleton Bay held limited opportunities for artists, so she took her work profile online, inundated with requests, nice to have her pick of work.
Abby shared Asher’s feisty spirit, he was happy to wrestle; they pounced and growled, worrying Vicky, as they bit and clawed at each other. In the calmer moments Asher would lay, stomach to the sun, squinting at Abby chasing butterflies, when she rested, it was to wash his head. Patches slowed, a lazy cat, she slept, enjoying her twilight years, purring heavily, deeply; Ziva ensured cuddles were longer, and she had space to eat her food without competition. Vicky knew her spot in the bed was forfeit the second she moved; Libby and Abby were ready to steal a place in the residual warmth, clawing the bedspread should Vicky wish to move them and return.
Spending time with Rylan in family situations was pleasant; arguments had fizzled out through the years, making way for playful banter and teasing. Enjoying a drink in memory of their parents every few years had become a regular event; although Ziva found Rylan more difficult as his celebrity status grew. Fans flashed their cameras, blinding them; some swooned, others thrust pen and book for an autograph, at least whilst he was on the bestsellers list. Ziva found it fickle he was the flavour of the month, the happiest she would see him, and when another book would hit the top, it made her brother grumpy. This evening was the former, Rylan on top form, who wanted to celebrate his recent book “Widow of Exile”, a move from cybercrime to borderline horror. Reading his work took time; Ziva’s stomach churned at the descriptive brutal acts; her preferred reading could elicit pleasant dreams, his book brought nightmares.
Her treadmill paid dividends, Ziva squealed, embracing Vicky, her girlfriend stumbled bewildered. Space Cadet; Ziva had clearance; she would board the shuttle, take herself to space. Ziva loved any excuse to party; Vicky had something romantic planned instead, a moment for the two of them unless kissing stopped them getting through the door. The Chez Llama was becoming their regular date location since the bowling alley incident. Sunset walks along the coast were no longer romantic; Fiona decided to eat another dog’s poop, and honked it up on the picnic blanket where they were kissing.
Vicky opted for a rooftop view, the stars, warm air, a glass of wine, her head spun, empty stomach. She skipped lunch, creating the perfect showpiece for her client’s home. In truth, Vicky wanted a special evening; a rose, a hesitated kneeling position; Ziva’s eyes widened, wondering what Vicky had in mind. Things had been great; living together had its problems, but a few hairballs or dead mouse in her shoe had her undeterred. French Toast brought them together; Vicky wanted a life in these moments, a breathless whirlwind, to awaken in old age without regrets of those memories spent together.
By the Grace of Sim Gods 