Why the hell didn't she have any white heels that would work? Why did they all have to be open-toe? Maybe she could go shopping, get white heels that would work with a white outfit for Che's funeral.
Maybe she should wear black.
Christ.
Parker sorted through her closet, and then turned and threw a shoe at the wall.
Parker was packing. She left for four months in China in less than a week, started classes at Peking University at the same time, and oh yes, Lyle was still on the loose.
Cigarettes were looking good.
[ooc: expecting one phone call, but open for others from small people who know Parker.]
Parker had finished up her Finals with one last burst of creativity that might net her another place on the Dean's List this semester; too soon to tell, or care, yet. She planned on being drunk for the next 24 hours, screw her ulcer. She deserved it.
But first, a call to Roma, and a policeman of her acquaintance from two years before. "Paulo, it's Parker. How are you, cara?"
Having spent half the weekend in the U.S. Central Time Zone, then come home in the middle of the Greenwich Mean Time night, Parker's body was a little confused about where it was. Or when it was. Or whether they should be asleep or awake, and weren't finals starting in a week?
Three cups of coffee didn't help. Maybe phoning a friend would.
*ring*
[for a future time-cop and his constructiony husband]
(1) It had been one of those weekends. (2) She was going to miss most of her Monday morning tutorial. Great. (3) She was going to have to figure out how to send back approximately 4.9 million pounds in stolen money to Lloyd's of London, anonymously. (4) She had to call half the people she knew and let them know she was not in jail or dead.
oh, and:
(5) Jumping off buildings was fun, but what the hell, crazy Parker, what the hell.
[ooc: open to friends of Parker who want to check that she's alive/not-incarcerated.]
After completing last night's activities successfully, Parker had checked into a nice hotel and just played with the money that evening. Now she was spending a little of it -- but only a little!-- on tea. And those big honkin' muffins and chocolates.
She'd tried to call Nate. Then Sofie. Then Eliot. Then Hardison, maybe a little to gloat that she was in the land of Mister What and he wasn't. And if he'd answered, she might have gotten him a T-shirt. But. No one home. Oh well.
Bored and still hungry, she started playing with the rich girl's phone.
*ring*
[for a phone in the future, and those who live there; and one in L.A.!]
Of course, Parker's been drinking forever anyway. And she's living in Oxford, where the drinking age is 18. And it's not like she's turning 21 and can drink in the States.
Still, there are worse places to celebrate your 20th birthday than a very chic bar in Paris, no?
Right now she's humming along with the piano, trying to decide which guy at the end of the bar she wants to talk to.
Since talking to Isabel earlier in the day, Parker had:
1) Gone into town and bought herself better mens' clothing. Thank God for credit cards that just said "M.Parker" on them.
2) Attempted to get drunk at noon at the only bar in town, just before realizing that the same was not true of her driver's license and photo. Damnit.
3) Flirted with the waitresses at the diner, finding it criminally easy to scam extra pie out of them. As well as eat a helluva a lot more. Ahhhhhh. Now she was back at Ben's on the stairs of the porch, considering how else to test-drive this new ride, eating another apple.
