#but for now a bit of 'what is wrong with my bizarre flatmate' slice of life

[viric-dreams]

I may have lost this painting when I quit my drawing programme, but I can offer a small writing snippet to accompany the WIP screenshot, so it's not all gone to waste:

“What are you painting?”

Tamara hadn’t heard Ockham come in, but the way the corners of her vision shift around her, harsh lines of light softening to a dreamy blur, she should’ve realised it much sooner.

“It’s the view from my bedroom balcony. In Varchas,” she says, choosing her words carefully in a tongue that still feels foreign and clunky.

Ockham squints, studying the painting with a furrowed brow, and the expression suddenly reminds her of her auntie. Tamara shakes her head, dismissing the illogical comparison. They clearly look nothing alike. They shouldn’t, at least.

Ockham’s hand traces along the line of a wall of mirrors, where it intersects with a planter containing long dead greenery, careful not to touch the still wet paint. She’s suddenly aware that the perspective on the planter is off, and makes a mental note to fix it as soon as she’s able.

“It is not a very nice view,” Ockham finally says.

Although it’s a somewhat rude thing to say, it’s not entirely wrong. There was nothing special or aesthetically pleasing about the view. She’d barely paid it any mind herself, in all of the years she’d lived and slept in that room. The part of her brain that had been slowly developing since she’d picked up this new hobby urged her to move some elements, give the piece stronger tones than the monotonous muddy yellow characteristic of Varchaasi evenings. But that would go against the aim of painting it in the first place.

“It is not a very nice view, no. But it’s the one I had, and if I don’t paint it how it was, I fear one day I won’t remember how it really looked like anymore.”

Ockham’s studying her now, and she wishes, not for the first time, that she had any insight into her flatmate and companion’s mind, whether it even worked the same way as a real person’s would. If Ockham would find her thought offensive.

“Ok.”

“Ok?” she repeats, confused.

“Ok,” Ockham nods, then moves away from the painting towards the door, “I go now to the market. Is there something not on the list that we need?”

She nods no, then catches herself and changes the motion.

“No, nothing.”

“Ok.”

Ockham is gone again. This time she hears the door click closed. With a sigh, she draws her brush across the canvas, determined to fix that planter before it cements itself as warped in her memories.

#tamara #ockham #my art #and they were roommates #oh my god they were roommates #this is set in early days after tamara's arrival in london #when she is still picking up english (though honestly speaks it much better than ockham by this point) #and has just picked up drawing/painting in her free time #and ockham is still recovering from an identity crisis after learning heshethey is a parabolan reflection #ockham isn't in the flat very often and they only recently overcame a language barrier #so they haven't really gotten to know each other all that well #but it will come #especially when tamara starts to learn flemish because she feels it would make ockham more comfortable than using english #but for now a bit of 'what is wrong with my bizarre flatmate' slice of life #how i approach ockham's pronouns in non-meta settings is a whole other writing piece #and i couldn't introduce it here without derailing from a short piece #so that's for the future