The Sound of Her Wings

Didi had packed for the trip to New York (jeans, boots, tank tops, jackets, all in a color palette ranging from black to black -- really, did you expect anything different?) and sat on her bed by the zipped suitcase, waiting for Jaime to get back from his visit with his family.

There was a gaily-wrapped box sitting next to her. Jaime might have forgotten what he'd said the last time she'd asked about when he would wear a kilt -- which she did every so often, just to keep him on his toes -- but she hadn't. And the conditions he'd proposed were, while clearly meant sarcastically, entirely favorable in Didi's eyes.

She checked the wall clock and folded her hands in her lap, completely at peace with her thoughts for the moment.

[OOC: For the roommate, unless someone else needs to grab her before the trip.]

The mortal incarnation of the anthropomorphic personification of life and death itself was propped up with pillows against the headboard of her bed, knitting something gray and maroon striped. She hadn't decided yet if it was going to grow up to be an afghan, or if she'd get bored by the time it was a scarf.

She was thinking, too. About Atropos' daughter and Aphrodite, about Drake and how very many worlds there were that she didn't know nearly enough about, despite knowing all she did.

And, almost distressingly often given her decidedly mixed feelings about dating mortals, about Jono, who might get the knitted thing if it did grow up to be a scarf.

Didi's door was open and she had the Psychedelic Furs on her CD player.

[Linkdrop-cum-open post, sure.]