[ His phone starts to ring. It stops ringing again after a moment or two. Why?
Because Tera or Tina or Tamara or Prudence — one of the many blonde, pale-eyed pixies that work at the bar with her — have confiscated her phone. Which might be the kindest, most genuine gesture of friendship (that doesn't involve murder) Nash has been on the receiving end of since arriving almost a year ago. ]
[ The answering voice is a pitch that medium-throated Nash couldn't dream of hitting, regardless of the octaves her voice can climb in Customer Service Mode. "Hi! You've reached Nash's phone. May I ask who this is?"
A pause. Beyond the bubbly voice occupying the speaker — faint words, unintelligible. A few shouts. The bachelors are enjoying their party.
"Actually, she'll call you back tomorrow—" click.
There isn't a call. She's hungover within an inch of her life, not rousing until the early afternoon and spending a good portion of it hunched over a certain porcelain apparatus. Eventually, there is a text — ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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*live
*upstairs
remember
[ She only has to stumble up a few flights of steps. Statistically, her odds of surviving that are in the low 60s. ]
forgot
hi
forgot
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Hi
Was the substitute bachelor party fun?
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we lokcked the doors
we're bachelors now
made up a bachelor shanty song
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why dont you find me attractive
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What do you mean?
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Because Tera or Tina or Tamara or Prudence — one of the many blonde, pale-eyed pixies that work at the bar with her — have confiscated her phone. Which might be the kindest, most genuine gesture of friendship (that doesn't involve murder) Nash has been on the receiving end of since arriving almost a year ago. ]
no subject
The ringing starts. It stops before he can answer. The confusion only deepens.
So he calls her back. Because he's worried. )
no subject
A pause. Beyond the bubbly voice occupying the speaker — faint words, unintelligible. A few shouts. The bachelors are enjoying their party.
"Actually, she'll call you back tomorrow—" click.
There isn't a call. She's hungover within an inch of her life, not rousing until the early afternoon and spending a good portion of it hunched over a certain porcelain apparatus. Eventually, there is a text — ]
Sorry.
Crazy night.
Talk to you later.