Happy Birthday, [livejournal.com profile] alliwantisanelf!

Oct. 2nd, 2010 01:45 pm
itstonedme: (Tania July 2009)
[personal profile] itstonedme
Dear Al, I come bearing best wishes and a present. There is no assurance this gift will keep on giving at this point, but the sentiment is definitely there. May your day be a joy spent with family, and here's hoping that the coming year makes the pain-in-the-assedness (literally!) of the last one a thing soon forgotten.

Title: La Boca
Pairing: Vigorli later on
Rating: G for this chapter; N17 perhaps later
Summary: Viggo is a struggling artist.

It was the first strobe of dawn cutting through the mired pane and thin curtain that woke Viggo. It had rained overnight; even before he opened his eyes, he could smell it, and for a moment, he had a flash of memory at having awakened briefly during the night to the sound of it beating on the shed's tin roof outside his window.

He rolled over to snag a cigarette and smoked it until it made him hack, half done. Throwing off the sheet, he got up and went into the bathroom, pissing distractedly, still half asleep, before taking a quick shower. When he was done, he returned to the bedroom, lighting the remaining stub, and walked naked to the bedroom doorway, hoisting himself up to the overhead frame so that he could pull two dozen chin lifts while ash drifted down his chest to the floor below.

He haphazardly made his bed after that, a perfunctory pull of sheets, and then dressed in jeans and a fresh t-shirt under yesterday's button-down. His workday required no sense of fashion and only rudimentary grooming; it blended compatibly with Viggo's personal view that the accoutrements of 'struggling artist' also made for smart marketing.

He padded barefoot to the kitchen stove to heat a pot of water for his morning mate, then systematically made his way back through the small flat he lived in, collecting the day's necessities while it heated. Routine dictated that by the time he had finished collecting the shots and pieces he'd worked on over the weekend, the water would be hot enough to pour, so he returned to the kitchen and with an efficiency born of many such mornings, quickly and carefully arranged the yerba before adding the bombilla and water. As it steeped, he grabbed two tins of sardines from the cupboard, along with a fork and a bowl, then collected his gourd and stepped out onto the back stoop to meet the day and let the morning air assail him.

The night's clouds had blown out to sea, and the day promised a comfortable heat; already islands of dryness splotched the cement beneath his feet. Tapping the fork's bent tines against one of the tins, he settled onto the top step and pulled the lids. The first tin was emptied into the bowl, which he placed on the bottom step; the second, he ate from directly.

"Hola, querida," he murmured as a skinny, grey feral cat dropped off the low brick wall abutting the back alley and swished towards him slowly, tail high. She settled into her breakfast at his feet, and when he was done with his own, he gently toed her aside and poured the remaining oil from his tin into her bowl. Lighting another cigarette, he watched her, drawing from his bombilla. "So you went and got knocked up," he said, considering the little bulge on her mangy frame that had bumped his foot. "Can't say I blame you. Shit happens."

She ignored him.

The early morning noises of trucks navigating the narrow street carried over the brickwork from the front of the building. Dogs barked somewhere down the alley way; cocks crowed deeper in the neighbourhood where someone was keeping chickens. By ten past seven, Viggo had wheeled the Dutch bicycle that he'd traded a painting for out of the shed and strapped his portfolios and folding easels to the metal trailer bolted to the bike's frame. The cat was now long gone with not so much as a fare-thee-well, again nothing new. Loading his camera bag over his shoulder, he pushed the bike into the back alley for the three mile ride to the city centre. He stopped at the local grocer a few blocks into his journey, conversing pleasantly with the young woman setting her sidewalk stalls, buying some bread, sausages and fruit for his lunch.

"Cesar wants to know if you'll be able to play this evening," she said to him, referring to the neighbourhood's weekly football scrum.

"Maybe," Viggo replied noncommitedly. "I'll try," he smiled when she pouted.

And so, in this small dock-side corner of Buenos Aires, a new week in the barrio of La Boca began.
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