[center][h3]Loom: Darlyn's Cafe[/h3]
[i]Day 3, Morning-Afternoon[/i]
Zadkiel, Roanne[/center]

Her skull felt like lead, so heavy and thick she could barely lift it. Shoulders, arms, legs—they had the same problem, painfully slow and cumbersome as she sat up and rubbed her eyes. Something slid off her waist as she did, a pale and well-manicured hand falling onto the mattress. She glanced at it, then at the creature behind her. White, white, white, his skin was smooth ivory, his hair liquid moonlight, his feathers cotton fluff. This was what people thought of when imagining a sleeping angel.

Yes, [i]that[/i], and not the harpy who found herself in a mirror on her way to the shower. Her cherry-caramel hair was curled into knots, stringy on one side of her head while the other fluffed out into a rat's nest. Her long neck was riddled with hickeys, such [i]delicate[/i], angry puffs of red that dotted the skin in embarrassing numbers. And, [i]Gods[/i], that was hardly the only place the wicked marks were blushing from! Mortified, Roanne scurried from the image and slipped into the shower, letting the hot water soothe her poor skin. Nothing like a good wash to—

[i]Dammit![/i] Of course, of course it wouldn't get the smell of him out. She was using [i]his[/i] shampoo and [i]his[/i] bodywash, after all. Clean, but hardly satisfied, she dried herself as quickly as she could, applying a hasty and generous amount of foundation she'd stashed away. With much more tame and damp curls trailing after her head, she practically jumped and shimmied into her clothes, which she neglected to realize had been cleaned and patched up sometime in the night.

“You're a wolf in sheep skin, Mr. Mercy!” Roanne rolled her eyes as she skipped out the door, only to rush back in for her phone, which had apparently been left on the bedside table she'd fallen asleep next to. 

[center][b]-~-[/b][/center]   

[center][img]http://www.medwaycafe.com/gallery/web_5349.jpg[/img][/center]
[center][i]You ain't nothin' but a hound dog
Cryin' all the time
You ain't nothin' but a hound dog
Cryin' all the time
Well, you ain't never caught a rabbit
And you ain't no friend of mine[/i][/center]

[i]Nice to see you, too, Elvis.[/i] Roanne heaved in breath after breath as she stumbled through the back door of Darlyn's Cafe. The blaring music of the restaurant’s jukebox could be heard all the way into the kitchen, which was where Roanne shrugged off her coat and pulled out her phone. The few cooks on duty there chuckled at her entrance, offering their morning duties. 

[b]Its been a while. U should visit the cafe. Ill buy[/b] Roanne thumbed in the words on her phone and sent them to a contact she'd been starting to feel guilty about neglecting. Poor Tokarin—what was she doing off all on her own, anyways? Sure, she was an angel and all, and a trained one at that, but she also wasn't a battle angel or even a guardian. With everything going on in the streets, well... no, better not to think about it. She just needed to see the sweet girl's face again.

Roanne tied her apron on, tucking her phone into her jacket hanging on the kitchen wall. With her breath mostly recovered, she was able to go straight to work on morning preparations. All the produce dates had to be checked, the vegetables washed and chopped, the meat sliced and the patties formed. As much as she loved the crisp smells and the gratifying chop of her knife, they only seemed to last a moment. Time ticked by in a flash, the morning light of the kitchen turning richer and thicker as afternoon approached.