Thread: ▬▬ { PALISADES } ⋮⋮ echo & dogged

So you have to be in class in about I dont know, an hour. You should have been on the metro thirty minutes ago, Ammon. At this rate youre going to have to drive and you and I both know that morning traffic on the Champlain is going to fuck you. Rusko repeatedly wrapped on his roommates door, but the reverb was driving him virtually insane. Hed been at it for thirty minutes, but was beginning to lose faith. Ammon was usually very curtand responsiblewith her morning routines. Wake, shower, breakfast, then she was out the door. On Wednesdays they took the metro together. Ammon would read the paper and Rusko would smile at the same strawberry blonde on the subway car at Plamondon. She always sashayed off at the Lionel-Groulx and batted her fake lashes at him. Every Wednesday he promised himself he would get her number, but that was almost fifty-two Wednesdays ago. Ammon. Come on. Rusko was a French scion, one of Notre-Dame de Graces pretty boys. He wore a pair of glasses that were well too oversized but made his aristocratic mien appear infinitely more studious. He had an obsequious air to him, toohis posture was perfect, his dusty brown hair was impeccably quaffed and his collar was preened and pressed to excellency. He cursed, giving her doorknob a quick twist. The door swung ajar and he peered into Ammons room. It was generally off limits, but when she was out during the evenings, he happened into it once or twice. Like any curious roommate he rummaged through dresser drawers and Rubbermaid bins hoping to find incriminating evidence of her personal life, but there were little to no spoils and certainly nothing of personal worth. Regardless, her room was quaint and lived in. Half the walls were unchipped brick with smooth wood panelling. Everything about her chamber was orderly, but the one thing that appeared askew was a frayed poster of the Ohio Players splashed on a psychedelic themed background. Ammon? He closed the space between himself and her bed, feeling through her comforter for what he hoped to be her shoulder, but somehow, he ended up clasping her thigh instead. Through the some odd-hundred thread-count quilt he felt her hot flesh. She flinched like a rabbit when he touched her and she shied away. Hey. Are you alright? She responded by sitting upright, but Rusko wasnt at all prepared to witness what he did. Her hair was jutting up in every which direction. She was drenched in sweat, her lips were pale and there were heavy, dark circles ensnaring her lifeless eyes. Rusko somehow managed a chuckle. Not feelin so hot, eh? His heavy French accent made all of his English sound callow. Youve probably accrued a few weeks of vacation time. Call in sick. Ammon tried to fetch her voice, but it snared in her throat, like a cloth on a branch. I cant. The sound she managed was something very short of what he considered a voice. It was raspy, defeated and barely legible. Ah, yes you can, my love. You look like shit, anyway. Every inch was sore. Her head was swimming, daggers were stabbing viciously at her corneas and even her mouth was dry. Shed already swilled some two litres of water over night but it was impossible educe any water. Regardless, she reached for her phone dialed the university. One of her colleagues answer, a secretary she knew for years. There were words exchanged, but the secretary seemed to make most of it. Fortunately, one of Ammons teacher assistants was well versed in the days lecture and was willing to step in, but only if she was able to teach the afternoon class. After the agreement was made, Ammon threw herself back into her sweat-soaked bed. Rusko inquired after her, but when there was no response, he left Ammon to herself.