from_the_outside

From:

Two weeks after her trip home to Virginia by way of New York City, she's sitting in her pjs with a cup of coffee and flipping through her mail, and when she comes across a postcard without a message or address, she tosses it into the recycling bin along with some old take-out menus.

It's not until her second cup of coffee that she pauses, thinks, and fishes it back out again.

A month. A month! This fucking guy. Not a word for a month, and now this blank postcard, because why communicate like a human being when you can act like a character from an Agatha Christie novel?

You know who has talked to her in the last two weeks? Steve Rogers. Never for long, and never about anything important, but every now and again her phone buzzes with a text from him and it had been really super nice to spend her mental real estate on someone who doesn't spend 99% of his time lurking in shadows and on rooftops.

(She might be a little annoyed. Maybe projecting a bit. Whatever.)

And yet, a few days later, on Friday evening after work, here she is, boarding the train to Leipzig instead of going out for a drink with her colleagues, or doing her laundry, or doing literally anything else that would be a better choice.

It better at least be a good event.