but there is another world where poussey gets out of prison and starts working her way up in a kitchen, long nights learning to dice onions with deftness on the job and smoking cigarettes as she walks home and watches the sun rise
and another where she goes to amsterdam and there are bicycles and narrow stone streets and good coffeeshop hash, and poussey takes it all in with wonder on her lovely face and she stumbles her way through elementary dutch
another world where she takes a train, back to germany, or south into france, and it doesn’t matter where she’s going, because she’s free, free, free, and every city is full of new experiences waiting to happen
or one where she and brook get a life together, a tiny apartment in their corner of the world, and they put up curtains, get a cat, drink wine underneath the stars and forget that they ever feared prison could ruin them
poussey who keeps lighting up rooms with her smile. poussey who could have gone anywhere, everywhere, who should have grown old with a beautiful woman and a beautifully curated library, with friends and sunshine and anything. anything. but this.
I don’t know who graced us with this photograph, but it’s beautiful. Love the hair, love the coat, love the scarf. Love the little cig tucked against him like he’s trying to hold it out of shot but it wouldn’t be Norman if he didn’t have it tucked between his fingers, thumb resting against the filter.
Would it be inappropriate to offer him a blow job right now?