Post by CYMRY ELEANORA FENTON on Jul 20, 2012 21:13:50 GMT -5
| [atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, background-image:url(http://i54.tinypic.com/2vafwqd.jpg), border: solid #ffffff 5px; width: 400px; height: 500px;] Jesus Christ! A pair of slippery hands removed themselves from her conditioned hair and scrambled to find the faucet for the motel’s shower. With a piercing creak, the water that fell from the shower head dribbled to nothing, and Cymry snatched the towel that hung over the door and wrapped it around herself. So cold. Her body shook with tremors, trying to bring back its natural temperature. She tugged the towel back and forth over her body, both drying herself and trying to warm herself up. The thick air from the moisture of the shower started to clear in the cramped little room, but she couldn’t take it anymore. Once she felt she was dry enough, Cymry opened the bathroom door. She stepped out, her now-dry feet meeting the cheap carpet of room number 17. Her feet carried her across the floor to her suitcase, where she dropped her towel and pulled out a pink garment bag – pink, because Cymry color-coded everything, and today, pink meant clean. She pulled out a bra and a pair of “ladypants” of choice. She pulled the bra on over her arms and up against her chest, then reached behind her to connect the two clasps. Then the ladypants, up and over legs they went; they stopped below her hips. Now somewhat clothed, Cymry went to the generic faux-wood dresser and pulled open a drawer where she kept her clean clothes and retrieved a pair of lighter-washed pants and a coffee-colored button up with polka dots. She pulled the pants up over her legs and pulled her arms through the shirt’s sleeves. She buttoned up the shirt, but left the first two open. The somewhat sheer, chiffon fabric let her bra show through only slightly, and, for a moment, Cymry debated whether or not she should wear this. It’s hot, you’ll stay cooler with this. Her mind reassured her. The rest of her morning went by quickly. As she let her hair air-dry, she applied deodorant, some lotion to protect her skin from the sun, and brushed her teeth, twice. Once her hair dried, Cymry pulled it into a messy side braid, and pushed her bangs back-and-out-of her face. She pulled on a pair of socks from the pink garment bag, and followed with a pair of older boots. With no need to check her phone for the time, Cymry glanced at the electronic clock on the nightstand. 11:07, the red LED screen red. Just in time. Cymry dug through and ice chest and pulled out an apple, which she sunk her teeth into gratefully. She slipped the room’s keycard into her back pocket, and made her way out the door. The room’s heavy door shut behind her, and she let her feet take her to her truck, which was parked right across from her room. She unlocked the driver’s side door with a quick twist of the wrist and jumped into the seat. She lifted her butt off the seat to retrieve the room key, and put it in one of the cup holders. She sat back down, pulled the apple from her teeth, and chewed on the bite she had pulled off. Another twist of her wrist – but this time with a lot more force – made the truck’s engine cough to start. She backed out of the parking stall and headed towards Foxtail. Hello, handsome. The heels of Cymry’s boots made a dull click along the barn’s cement aisle as she made her way towards Gizmo’s stall. The black gelding hung his head over the stall door at the sound of her voice and nickered a greeting. He tossed his head and then disappeared into the stall for a few seconds, before throwing his head back over the door. Oh calm down, drama queen. She was at his stall now, rubbing his favorite spot behind his right ear. Gizmo reached over the door and lipped at the apple in her free hand. He snapped it from her hand before Cymry had the chance to pull away. Watch it, Giz! You almost took a couple fingers with that! Her voice echoed through the empty barn, covering the sound of the other horses rustling around in their own stalls. The sound of the gelding’s teeth grinding the apple told Cymry he really didn’t care that she almost lost a digit or two. Figures. Cymry tapped him on the nose with two fingers, and then spun on her heel. The smell of leather filled her nose as she entered the tack room. Her stomach churned a little, and her eyes grazed over all the saddles and bridles that hung silently from the walls. The majority of the tack in here belonged to English riders; Cymry felt ridiculously out of place. She lifted Gizmo’s halter off its designated hook, and slung the lead around her neck and let the halter hang over her shoulder. The rest comes later, she spoke softly to herself and bent her knees to pick up her grooming kit. She made her way back to Gizmo, where his head still hung over the door and his jaw still grinding the apple. Cymry pulled open the stall door, wedging herself between the open space and Gizmo before he could try to get out, and pulled the halter up over his muzzle. She secured the halter around his head with a quick knot, and then pushed open the unlatched stall door with a foot. It swung open and swayed a bit before falling still and left enough space for the gelding to fit through. Cymry led him out, and Gizmo whinnied to a few of the more curious equines that were spying silently from their stalls. The gelding slapped his tail against his side and picked up his feet in a flirtatious prance as Cymry led him down the aisle to the crossties. Oh, give it up. You’re never going to make any babies. Cymry reminded the recent gelding. He whickered impatiently and tried to speed up, but Cymry tugged hard on the lead and he snapped his head back in protest. Knock it off! She slapped him lightly with the end of the lead rope. Because she was unable to actually crosstie Gizmo due to the design of his halter, she instead made a quick release knot through one of the metal rings that hovered over her head. She had to stand on her toes, and nearly lost her balance when Gizmo nudged the small of her back with his muzzle. What did I say? She looked at him over his shoulder as she returned to his stall to grab the bucket with her miscellany grooming supplies. Gizmo gave her a snort when she returned, and Cymry stuck her tongue out at him. She placed the bucket a few feet away from Gizmo, and pulled out a rubber curry comb and a soft brush. Gizmo chewed a bit on the wood that he was tied to. The hand Cymry was using to curry Gizmo stopped, and Gizmo stopped biting at the wood. You’re in rare form today, mister. She said, tossing the curry comb back into the bucket and going over his coat with the brush. It’s going to be warm today, bud. So we’re probably going to work in the indoor arena and then go for a quick ride on a trail. How’s that sound? Gizmo turned his head to look at her as she brushed over his rump. I’m going to take that as an, Okay, Cymry, whatever you say. Because you’re the one who feeds me and picks my shit out of my hooves, and for that I am eternally grateful. |
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