Sitting on the edge of a roof. The pinkette heaves a sigh, kicking her feet out, and sighing again when she hears her boots hit the brick siding. A ruddy spot shines bright on the leather, wet and reflecting. Absently she looks at her project, half done, but the spark was dead. Gone, extinguished, when a certain ringtone managed to snare her mind through the exaltation of pure primal beauty of her creative process.

(Oh, and her spotify playlist.)

She's holding her phone in her hand like it's a fragile, newborn hope. The light of the display fights against the ambience of the moon and the stars and the streetlights drowning them all out.

She missed the call.

...or knowing Arnie, the idiot, called when she knew Pep was blissed out, and wrists deep in a project and couldn't answer. Maybe it was for the best, they. They weren't quite as in sync as they used to be. Before.

With a groan she flings herself back. Hitting her back on the rough roofing, uncaring of the force and the developing scrapes and bruises. Uncaring as her hair flings into her project and as the pigment clings, darkening the strands.

She cares, though, about the phone in her hands.

Gently, carefully, she brings it to her ear and listens.

She snorts of a laugh, more a sob with humour, before snorting again and swallowing the snot ball in her throat, dials the number. Her decision, well. She rubs her face with her free hand. Drying her tears and messing her makeup, it didn't matter. Nothing else really mattered.

"Unruffle those feathers sister mine, in a few hours I'll 'ave crossed state lines, give me a few days after that, and I'll be in Sactown, quick as a cat." she cuts the call, throws her phone in her bag, then her bag across her chest, hopping down to the fire escape and pelting down the stairs.

Her art, would remain unremembered and unlamented in it's ugly, half finished always-now incomplete state. She settles on her bike, feels it purr, and she smiles. Fiercely, vibrantly, violently alive, she has somewhere more important to be.