carpet and upholstery

I have actually been to a real-life Northwest Mansion. I befriended this girl during high school freshman orientation and she invited me to hang out (we didn’t stay friends, she turned out to be a total jerk). We drove to her grandparents’ house and pulled up to a gate with a button outside that you could press to talk to a butler or something. I had no idea what was going on at this point - I thought maybe it was the gate to a whole community. Nope. A long driveway led to a gigantic manor on a hill… the dog ate freshly cooked roast chicken every day, there was at least one elevator, a pool, a pool house, a basement theatre with a huge screen, rows of seats, a bar, and entire rooms that seemed to serve no other purpose than to showcase a particular aesthetic style. One was entirely dedicated to immaculate white - white carpet, white walls, white upholstery, white decor…. and no, I wasn’t allowed to set foot in it.

That… was a weird day, let me tell you. The whole time I was there, it felt like I was being tested. The girl insisted on watching ‘Saved!’, which is an odd choice for someone you just met and know almost nothing about. Her parents interrogated me about my politics, my diet, my community involvement…. I was not invited back, and a couple of months later, she abruptly stopped acknowledging my existence and has not spoken a word to or made eye contact with me since.

She’s never out of sight

Originally posted by trechos-of-books

Adam fell asleep reading many nights, the leather-bound book splayed in his lap. Belle would shake her head, to rid herself of the overlaid image of the Beast in the same armchair, so much broader and taller, his legs reaching half-way across the richly patterned carpet, the upholstery of the chair worn in different places from his shoulders, the marks he’d left with his claws. His eyes were the same, she told herself that though it wasn’t entirely true, but it was true enough and she had learned that meant something, from the books of the library he’d given to her when she was still his hostage and from the hours she spent considering their attachment and what else the world could hold for her. She had wanted adventure and when she’d had it, she couldn’t enjoy it; she wondered how much risk she was willing to take. She stood and walked to him, to take the book from his lap, to settle herself in its place. She was beginning to know what he felt like as a man and he was beginning to accept the beast had not left him completely, wrapping his arm around her waist tightly even before he opened his blue eyes, letting his voice be something between a murmur and a growl when he woke fully, her hand in the hair he refused to cut. It was a darker gold in the firelight, with other colors, umber, chestnut, tints that her father would have had on his palette. She closed her eyes when he touched her throat with his lips, when he called her ma trésor, when the book slipped to the floor and Adam woke up.