every time i try to leave ., open

[jane warwick.]

- - - - - Jane was nearly always found at a bar after work, her clothes still chic and classic, if not a bit rumpled. As of late, things had been tense and stressful in the office; she felt the affairs of her bosses swirling around in her brain even when she tried desperately not to think about running into one of them. It must have been exceedingly difficult to be around models all the time and when the time came around, be stuck with only a single woman. That man could have anyone, and he was stuck with merely one.. Jane felt bad for him. Threading her fingers through her hair with one hand, she swirled the wine in her glass and glanced across the bar to Lyle, the bartender. He'd been there nearly as long as she'd been coming, having started about a week after.. thinking that made her feel old. Jane came to Paris to study, and ended up dealing in fashion more than she ever thought she would. College was something that had always loomed on the horizon but had never drawn her all the way in. She felt if she had to sit in a room full of people who were trying to avoid learning for another year, she'd off herself. And no one wanted Jane to off herself, because then who would arrange for a private coffee-runner? “How's it going, Lyle?” she questioned, her tri-state accent marred with the slight french accent that had set in from being here for several years. “It's going, miss.” if she was the quintessential spawn of millionaires, then Lyle was the british underachiever who filched his way through life until he made it to a point where the only option was to soothe people's woes as a bartender. She loved him like a fuck-up uncle, there was no one better to talk to when she was feeling down.

- - - - - “Of course it is, it never slows down.” she stated dryly, taking a sip of her wine before slumping forward a bit on the bar. “Ah, what makes you say that, Miss?” he questioned, doting on her like he always did, despite the line of other customers he should have been attending to. The pub Lyle worked in was so hole-in-the-wall that there were rarely people there she didn't know, which may have explained the reason the others said nothing. It was just where you went after work to get rid of all the pressure on you for a couple hours, that was generally accepted. “The office has been ringing me nonstop for two and a half hours; I got off of work three hours ago.” she rolled her eyes, bringing the desperately in need of update cellphone up to her features and squinting slightly as she tried to read the messages Mr. Thomas had left her.. they were all something along the lines of 'get your ass here on time tomorrow' and 'why was my coffee late? We need a professional image, not your screwed up one.' “I woke up early this morning, Lyle.”

[/i] she frowned, shaking her head and going back to watching as the wine swirled up to the edge of the glass, delicate fingers tapping gently against the stem. “And then there were a series of mishaps...”[/i][/b] her frown lines deepened, eyebrows knitting. She was one of the most valued employees at both Thomas Models and Vogue France.. so why did they insist on railing at her whenever she made a tiny mistake? It was so beyond frustrating. “And you were late, yeah?” he questioned, filling in her sentence. A small bit of a wistful smile formed over her lips as she nodded, eyes downcast. “I tried to get there on time, but even the taxis were running late,”[/i] [/color]

- - - - - Lyle bobbed his head, wordless, as he moved silently to fill the needs of someone else. Jane's eyes followed him, amused slightly by his position as her therapist, but not enough to push a smile onto her downtrodden expression. Like the screw-up father she never had or wanted. He was the closest thing resembling family she had, and she cherished that... her mother and father had no interest in her, so it was with a sort of careful confidentiality that their relationship presided. Unbuttoning the cuffs on the sleeves of her shirt, she rolled them up, exposing her lower arms as the pale-fleshed, slender appendages they were. Breathing out a heavy sigh, her eyes moved around the bar, taking in all the old faces. Old faces she'd seen thousands of times before. Paris really was smaller than people gave it credit for being.

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