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Room 210; Sunday Afternoon [11/28].
Nov. 28th, 2021 05:22 amAstrid sat with her long legs folded in front of her as she sat on her bed that afternoon, surrounded by a ring of papers. Not drawings, as one might expect, although she did plan to eventually repurpose them all some day into some sort of collage-piece, more than likely. No, she was surrounded by information, by forms, by applications and brochures, collected idly within the last few weeks and now gathered in front of her to be sorted through dauntingly. Admissions for colleges, for art schools, financial aid and scholarships. Was she a little late to be planning for this? Early? Not too long ago, she'd practically had an application ready to be sent off by Claire's good graces, and after she died, thoughts of higher education died with her. But now, facing graduation next semester, it was having a bit of a ressurection in Astrid's mind. She'd been saving enough money. With some help, maybe she actually could afford it.
It was possible, too, that she could use her mother's connections to get in somewhere back home. And why shouldn't she? Ingrid would certainly not hesitate to tap into resources available to her...but it was telling, that all the applications Astrid was seriously considering were all school distinctly on the east coast....or, even better, across the pond entirely in Europe.
But what caught her attention the most that afternoon was not an application or a form or a brochure, but, instead, a small, slightly creased business card, mostly forgotten about and discarded among all of Astrid's letters and drawings and sketchbooks, but remembered thanks to a weekend where she was herself, but not really herself. A business card for a comic book shop in New York, with a name and a sketch scribbled on the back of it.
She stated at the card for a long time, flipping it over in her hands, considering, contemplating, regretting, and then, finally, she reached for a notebook, flipped to a clean, fresh page, and began to write:
Dear Paul,
I'm not sure if you even remember me...
[[ door and post are very open! ]]
It was possible, too, that she could use her mother's connections to get in somewhere back home. And why shouldn't she? Ingrid would certainly not hesitate to tap into resources available to her...but it was telling, that all the applications Astrid was seriously considering were all school distinctly on the east coast....or, even better, across the pond entirely in Europe.
But what caught her attention the most that afternoon was not an application or a form or a brochure, but, instead, a small, slightly creased business card, mostly forgotten about and discarded among all of Astrid's letters and drawings and sketchbooks, but remembered thanks to a weekend where she was herself, but not really herself. A business card for a comic book shop in New York, with a name and a sketch scribbled on the back of it.
She stated at the card for a long time, flipping it over in her hands, considering, contemplating, regretting, and then, finally, she reached for a notebook, flipped to a clean, fresh page, and began to write:
Dear Paul,
I'm not sure if you even remember me...
[[ door and post are very open! ]]
