Chat History
Remember: everything Alan Blomfield says is made up.
Moving was always such a goddamn chore.
All the damn packin' and unpackin', organising the truck, assemblin' the furniture... weren't the first time he'd done it, probably wouldn't be the last, neither. Yet... he never quite got over the feeling of doing it alone . Back when he and Delilah were together, well... moving house with four kids was always a fuckin' mess, but there was something to be said about coming to a new place together. It was... hollow, now. Like drifting. Even six years of separation later.
Well, at least the worst of it was outta the way. He sorted the unpacking throughout the week - only a few boxes littered throughout the various rooms of his humble little house remained. Not like he had much, really - was just himself, after all. Alan's existence was spartan, punctuated only by small keepsakes to personalise the space. Fishing equipment in the garage, landscape portraits on the walls, photos of his four beautiful fawns across the hallway table... weren't much, but it was his. Mussing a hand through the shaggy mop of grey-streaked mess he called hair, Alan sighed. He felt... restless. Been cooped up inside all day sortin' his fuckin' dinnerware and spare linens -- and on a fine Sunday like this'un, that felt half a crime.
Fuck it. Bit of time in the yard would do him some good. One was supposed to take breaks, after all.
Striding out the side door, Alan visibly relaxed as soon as the warmth of the sun kissed his skin. Chestnut-hued eyes fluttered closed as he basked for a long moment -- looking, admittedly, somewhat majestic, if he did say so himself. The rack of heavy stag-antlers jutting from his skull caught the light nicely, haloing the edges in a soft golden glow. Yeah, this was a good decision - there was a nice breeze, the twitter and trill of birds making his furred brown deer-ears twitch and swivel...
... and footsteps.
He spoke too fuckin' soon, it seemed.
Reluctantly peeling his eyes open once more, Alan's mouth set to a thin line, the broad slope of his shoulders tensing taught... ah, it was the damn neighbour woman again. If he was lucky, she hadn't noticed him... ah, no. There she was, staring right at him - for fuck's sakes, couldn't a man get a lick of goddamn peace? He hadn't a clue why this lady kept tryna talk to him. He'd made it abundantly clear he didn't care a lick for small talk and actin' all neighbourly... as much as it'd have his Pa rollin' in his grave, Southern hospitality beaten into him an' all. Alan just wanted to be left the hell alone . Yet this... this damn gal seemed either too damn dull to understand that, or was willfully ignorin' it; and the latter pissed him off far more, were it the case.
Was she just... persistent? Overly friendly (ugh)? Or did she take some perverse joy in annoying the ever-loving hell outta him? All questions he really did not care to know the answer to.
A muscle feathered along the stag-demi's bearded jaw as he locked eyes with you. She was a pretty enough thing, sure, but no one would ever really hold a candle to his Delilah... a pang of yearning shot through his chest, mingling with acrid twists of bitterness somewhere along the way. Would only sour his day more to think on how bad he missed his ex-wife, even now. Six years separated never could did wash out thirty-three years together. Pushing the thoughts from his mind, he exhaled a sharp breath through his nostrils. Perhaps if he ripped the bandaid off, this stupid, inevitable interaction could be over quickly.
Dipping his head tersely in greeting to her, Alan spoke, voice as clipped as ever. "Afternoon, you." He didn't know why he remembered her name - their introduction back when he rolled up in the moving truck on Monday had been a short thing, bristling with irritation on his part after a long drive and the stress of settling in. He'd been wound up tighter than a nun's asshole that day, and vaguely remembered the look of utter contempt that had been plastered on his face when she'd introduced herself at the time. That alone should have been enough to drive her off - woulda done, most anyone else - but not her.
Not. Fuckin'. Her.
Shit, but he was bad at small talk. The hell did one even say? Alan had never been one for socalisin' - Delilah was always better at it. She carried the bulk of it through their marriage; was a regular social butterfly, knew just how to handle people. Him? Not at all. "Nice, uh. Weather we're havin'." Classic. Classic, and... awkward. Alan clamped his jaw so hard he felt his molars grind. Behind him, the stag-demi's tail gave a nervous twitch, coupled with a flick of those cervine ears of his. "You want somethin', or ya just sayin' hi?"
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