#Green Chesterfield Sofa

[urbanwoods56]

How to Choose the Best Chesterfield Sofa Set

Urbanwood offers a diverse selection of chesterfield sofas, including chesterfield sofa sets and modern chesterfield sofas. These sofas are crafted with attention to detail and quality materials, ensuring both style and durability. Whether you're looking for a classic chesterfield design or a contemporary twist on the iconic style, Urbanwood provides options to suit various preferences and interior decor themes. With their range of wooden sofas designs, you can find the perfect chesterfield sofa to elevate your living space. Explore Urbanwood's collection to discover timeless elegance and comfort for your home.

[urbanwood02]

[varunnehra]

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[inspiredlivingspaces]

Pinterest

[hypedfire]

Music Room in New York An illustration of a mid-sized enclosed living room with gray walls, a music area, and a medium-tone wood floor.

[yuriandtea]

Living Room - Music Room An illustration of a mid-sized enclosed living room with gray walls, a music area, and a medium-tone wood floor.

[lechapardeur]

Living Room Open San Francisco An image of a medium-sized eclectic formal living room with a light wood floor and no television, white walls, and a fireplace

[greenawayarchitecture]

Harry the dog enjoys the views of wildlife and the warmth of the passive solar gain at our Garden House project in Northamptonshire, whilst sat on his vintage green Chesterfield sofa. Harry was specified in black RAL 9005 to tie in with the windows. #black #dog #architecture #contemporary #modern #house #countryhome #home #design #garden #furniture #sofa #chesterfield #green #northamptonshire #greenawayarchitecture (at Rothersthorpe) https://www.instagram.com/p/CoAUmMxMIY3/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[adnauseum11]

Unexploded Ordinance (John Price x Reader)

You and John navigate the process of moving in together. John is pleased you are home.

1.4k words

CW: swearing, explicit sex MDNI

If the end of this chapter feels a bit abrupt it's because I split it in two to keep it from being a ridiculous length. You can expect the next chapter to pick up where this one left off.

Still not completely happy with this chapter but in the interest of not circling the drain forever and moving forward I'm posting anyways lol yolo

feedback welcome!

When John hasn’t returned from his call before you are done eating your breakfast - and polishing off the last of the raspberries - you take yourself to the bathroom to shower. He’s waiting for you in the living room when you finally emerge, feeling a bit more like yourself. He’s clearly lost in thought, your hand on his shoulder finally knocking him back to the present.

John is easy to talk into moving more things today, on your impromptu day off. When you arrive back at the apartment, he checks the door before he lets you enter, satisfied it’s been undisturbed. You immediately bicker with him about your furniture and what pieces will stay or go. You can tell he’s pleased when he wins the debate between the couches, you being partial to your vintage re-upholstered and wildly heavy chesterfield sofa. It’s too short for John to lay down on, forcing him to bend his knees and isn’t very comfortable, truth be told. It’s a gorgeous deep green velvet that draws the eye but otherwise isn’t overly practical. You pout about having to give it up until he gives over on your books entirely. He’s consistently bitched about moving your personal library, filled with heavy anthologies from your university days. They’ve been dragged from pillar to post over the years and you’ve refused every less than subtle suggestion to sell them. He doesn’t even try to make you choose which ones to keep, sighing deeply in resignation and asking how many boxes you think it will take to pack them all. This earns him the hardest hug you can muster and a rain of kisses he has to crouch for, chuckling lowly.

You make a trip back to his place with your clothing, the colourful array of fabrics making John’s limited selections seem all the starker by comparison. It brings you up short, seeing your things beside his in the wardrobe. You get caught up wondering what the hell you are doing, agreeing to this. You don’t get very far in your spiral before John finds you, kneeling surrounded by folded t-shirts. You’re jealous of his ability to seemingly pick a course of action and execute it without the self-doubt that swamps you occasionally. If you hadn’t known him as long as you have you would say it’s something he learned in the military, but you’re pretty sure that’s all John.

His presence steadies you again and you end up making another trip to collect your hairdryer and various other products needed to make yourself presentable for work tomorrow. Most of your everyday use items and valuables are safely rehoused in John’s flat by the time you are ready to throw the towel in for the day. You agree to go to the pub around the corner for dinner, neither of you feeling like cooking. On the walk down, John’s big hand stays on your lower back, keeping you close as you wander down the street together. It’s quiet at the pub, early in the week meaning the clientele are mostly regulars. You get your choice of seats and John steers you to a booth against the back wall, tugging you to sit on the same side as him.

He questions your half-baked plan to quit your job while distracting you from giving an answer, his hand creeping over your thigh and shoulders, bracketing you against him. You finally cross your legs, pinning his warm hand between your thighs so you can formulate a coherent response. He presses a smirk against your temple and listens as you complain of your treatment this morning, and then just in general. You've had a volatile few days and vent your spleen accordingly.

He removes his hands from your body when the food arrives, creating a tiny sliver of space between you on the bench seat. John hums sympathetically at your complaints but finally convinces you to get through the rest of the week before you submit anything in writing, pointing out you should probably update your resume first at minimum. You grumble but reluctantly agree, his even-keeled approach to the situation a better tactic than your instinct for dramatics.

John’s level head only seems to extend to your choices because by the time you’re out the door and on the way home he’s truly unable to keep his hands to himself. Twice on the short walk back he’s pressed you up against the wall of a nearby building, his hands cupping your face as his eager mouth finds yours. You make out like teenagers until you can feel the cold creeping into the tips of your ears, a gentle push against his chest enough to back him off temporarily. You’re getting better at reading John in this state, how his eyes glaze with want and his focus narrows. You finally resort to threading your fingers with his to keep his hand from constantly drifting over your ass, wrapping yourself around his arm to make him behave. 

You open the door using your key, John too preoccupied with working his hands under your jacket and shirt. His big body corrals you against him, kicking the door shut after wrestling you through it, almost not giving you time to get your key out of the lock.

“Fucking hell John.”

You breathe out as he spins you around, your arms going around his neck automatically. He kisses you hungrily, his palm cupping the back of your head. You feel the thump of the wall at your back, his hand leaving the back of your head to shove your coat off your shoulders. You wiggle out of it and push at the thick lambskin jacket he’s wearing, slipping your hands under it to grip his shoulders. He shrugs out of it, his lips finding yours again almost immediately. You can feel desire vibrating through his frame, his thigh working its way between yours. Before he can overwhelm you completely, you push back against his chest.

He's breathing hard, confusion mixing across his face as you flatten your palms against his chest and push, reversing your positions by backing him up against the opposite wall. You have to go up on your tip toes, gripping the back of his neck to tug him down to kiss you again. He’s got his hands full of your ass, too preoccupied to catch on to your intent until you're slipping out of his grasp, sliding to your knees in front of him. Your nimble fingers have his belt undone and his jeans open before he can process and stop you, hissing out your name as your fingers wrap around his twitching cock.

You smirk to yourself and wrench a deep groan from his chest as your lips close around the flushed head of his cock, your eyes locking on his face. His cheeks and throat are flushed with the same shade of red as his cock, his blue eyes now nearly black, his pupils dilated with desire. He looks so intense it sends a thrill through your belly that you’re capable of affecting him like this. You swirl your tongue over the head, tasting the salty pre-cum and slide your palm up the wiry hair of his firm abdomen, pushing his shirt up.

John growls lowly, his fingers burying into your hair, gripping close to the roots. He doesn’t try to direct your movements, content to let you work him over however you see fit but the gentle pull on your hair sends flashes of sensation down your spine. The muscles of his stomach jump at the drag of your fingers on his cock as you squeeze the base, sucking on the tip deeply, making John’s fingers clench in your hair. You lift off him and press his erection against his belly, running the flat of your tongue over the underside before teasing his balls with the tip of your tongue.

That has John rocking up onto his toes, hissing your name again followed by a curse. You can’t stop the pleased smirk that slides across your face and wrap your lips around the tip again, focusing your tongue on the sensitive spot on the underside. You can feel his cock twitching, the tension in his body ratcheting tighter with a moan. You let his shirt drop and cup his balls, lapping at the tip intently.

That seems to finally push John beyond his limit and he firmly tugs your hair to pull you off him. Your scalp tingles and you hum in disappointment but John’s already got a hold of your arm, lifting you to your feet again.

“C'mere love, I want to be inside you when I cum.”  

He growls lowly, making you shiver, backing you down the hallway to the bedroom with predatory intent. The look on his face makes your stomach quiver in anticipation, your insides going molten.

Next Chapter

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[deathblacksmoke]

the gentlest feeling

a dramamine story

pairing: nick ruffilo x noah sebastian

summary: shortly after the conclusion of the original dramamine series, nick and noah move into their first home together.

cw: fluff <3, boys in love, domestic bliss, brief mentions of the afterlife & guardian angels

word count: 825

author's note: it might be a little bit too fluffy but i just wanted a soft thing and i missed writing these sweet boys. minimally proofread.

title from "blue light" by bloc party.

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As he flits about the house — their house — he can’t help but count his blessings that they were able to get here. That Noah didn’t give up on him.

He places their dishes in the cupboard, their spices in the pantry, their toiletries in the shower, their linens in the closet. He makes the bed — their bed — the new queen-size they saved up to split. They’ll wind up squished to one side most nights, because Nick hates to have distance between them, even now, when the Virginia nights are hot and humid. Noah still likes to sleep with a window open and the fan blasting so he can hear the crickets and see the lightning bugs.

They’ll wake up sticky and warm but he wouldn’t want anything else than to wake up like that in the morning — every morning — with the sunlight flickering through the open window and stuck to his sweet boy, an excuse to huddle together in the shower before breakfast.

As odd as the idea feels passing through his mind, he can’t help but think that Jasmine would be proud of him, that she would see him and feel thrilled that he allowed his life to be turned around.

He doesn’t know if he believes in God, but he knows that he still finds her everywhere. She’s in the disembodied laugh he hears bellowing through the bar, the one that can only be traced back to her. When he gets a Jeopardy question right and Noah’s smiling wide and nudging him, they’re back at trivia night at The Rabbit’s Foot, Jasmine whispering the answer in his ear so he can get all the glory. She’s tucked in the corners of every bit of his life and while sometimes the reminders sting, leaving a deep ache in his gut, they usually wrap themselves around him like her warm hugs always did.

He didn’t always believe in Heaven, but for her sake, he hopes she’s somewhere lovely, listening to her favorite records. He feels guided by a gentle hand and knows that it’s her doing, one way or another.

He’s taken out of his thoughts by Noah beckoning him into the living room, a distant Nicky that always sends him excitedly rushing in its direction. He finds his love sprawled on the green velvet chesterfield they plucked off a curb, the perfect find.

“How’s it look?” Noah asks him. He doesn’t have to look around him to know it’s perfect — he blindly trusts Noah’s eye — but he makes a show of doing it anyway. Their listening station has been set up in the corner, and at the sight of their collections mixed, he feels his heart clench. Somehow, that’s what makes this the most real.

What catches his eye the most, though, is the shelf of framed photos that Noah set up in the entryway. Photos of them, of Noah and Autumn, of Nick and Jolly, of Noah and Folio — among all of the little memories they’ve made together in the past 6 months, an old one stands in the middle, drawing his attention the most. The photo from Autumn’s 30th, Nick and Jazz, still happy.

Without asking, and without being asked, Noah carved out a space for her memory in their home. If Nick didn’t know any better, he would think Jasmine sent him.

Holding back tears and nearly failing, he turns his attention back to Noah, who’s lounging on the sofa and looking up expectantly. His feet take him on their own accord, dropping himself on top of him and blanketing Noah’s body with his own. He wraps himself around him, happy to save the remainder of the unpacking for later.

“It’s perfect, sweetheart,” he speaks into the side of Noah’s neck, peppering his skin with delicate kisses. “Thank you for being here with me.”

“Thank you for paying the security deposit,” Noah responds with a laugh, tightening his arms around Nick’s middle. He settles further into the sofa, bringing Nick with him.

He used to believe in one true love. He believes it less and less every day.

He struggles to imagine anything less true than the love he had with Jazz, the safety he felt there and the warmth of her delicate touch. He can’t think of anything less true than the love he has with Noah, the laughs they share, the peace he feels, the warm glow that encompasses everything.

He feels relief, again, for the privilege of a mind gone quiet. He never thought this was something he could have, the freedom to build a home again, the two of them and all of their things — their grief, their memories, and the people that will stay with them.

He runs a hand under Noah’s shirt, a comfort in the feeling of soft, bare skin beneath his fingers. Noah places a kiss to the top of his head, and everything blurs around the edges.

He’s safe again.

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[jomiddlemarch]

The shapes a bright container can contain!

IV. “This is a carriage house?” Hermione asked after first standing silent for a good two minutes, a length of time that seemed far longer when a witch was known to hurl herself into a squid-infested loch in early winter.

“You speak as if you have an extensive experience of real estate,” Draco retorted. 

“It’s quite a bit more house than I’d imagined,” she said. To exceed Hermione Granger’s imagination was a feat and Draco decided he’d follow the Muggle adage and begin as he meant to go on.

“Did you expect it to still contain carriages? Or horses? Tack?” Draco said. “Did you want a pony? That could be arranged, though I think an Arabian or an Abraxan hybrid—"

“No. Of course not,” she said. “But this is quite lovely. So thoughtfully appointed.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“Your wife had exquisite taste,” Hermione said.

“Yes, she did,” Draco replied. “You can see it in the main house. This was my project.”

“Oh, I see. I didn’t mean to imply,” she broke off. Somehow, this was what flustered her, this bit of gauche maladroitness, though she was staying in the home of a former Death Eater, a man who still bore the brand of a genocidal maniac on his forearm. She didn’t blush however; her eyes only widened and she seemed to lose what color she had. Draco decided he’d look after her well enough blushing became an option again.

“It’s all right. Why don’t I give you a tour of the place, get you settled,” he said. He wanted to offer her his arm, to feel her hand on him and keep her steady, but he suspected she would actually be as offended as she’d imagined he might just have been. He walked closer to her than would ordinarily be considered polite and kept the pace slow.

“This is the sitting room,” he said, gesturing around them. Two large chesterfields upholstered in dark green velvet sat on either side of a coffee-table strewn with periodicals and some art books, a bowl hewn from the base of a cypress at the center, filled with green apples. Squashy silk pillows in an array of jewel tones were tucked at either end of the sofas, a cashmere throw draped in a corner. A pair of club chairs bracketed the large fireplace, and an ancient Persian rug was underfoot. Long windows were surrounded by bookshelves, the bookshelves full of neatly arranged books that appeared much-handled. 

“It’s lovely. Looks very comfortable,” Hermione said. He beckoned her to follow him as he walked across the space and miraculously, she followed, her wand-hand empty.

“This is the kitchen. The table seats six, though it’s easy enough to enlarge it if you wanted to have more people over. You should have as many people over as you like,” Draco said. The table was a generously sized oval made of beautifully patinaed mahogany and he thought she would have preferred something sturdy and practical, a scrubbed oak. She’d want to set it with mismatched plates, a potluck with dishes randomly assembled or better yet, Indian takeaway with plenty of samosas.

“Is there a Transfiguration spell that preserves the wood better?” Hermione asked. 

“There’s a leaf. Though any standard Transfiguration you’d cast would be fine. It’s not a priceless antique,” Draco said.

“It looks like a Sheraton,” Hermione remarked. “I suppose that’s not priceless to you. It’s just Muggle.”

“It’s a fake. A fake Sheraton,” Draco said, shrugging, trying not to feel flustered and failing. “I like the look of Georgian furniture, but I didn’t want anything that would feel like a museum piece. I had enough of that, growing up. Except that that furniture was also cursed half the time.”

“Half, huh?”

“Closer to three-quarters in the North Wing. Dreadful place and you can’t even burn it to the ground,” he said. 

“A pity. I guess. This is the kitchen proper?” she said, moving past him into the room with its soapstone worktops, slate floors, sage green painted cupboards fitted as neatly as a ship’s galley, though there was plenty of space. A marble slab for pastry, a great hulking Aga prepared to cook a roast and warm the whole house, and tucked behind—

“That’s a butler’s pantry,” Draco said, as she poked her head around to peer in the narrow space.

“You thought this place needed a butler’s pantry? Is there a butler?” she asked, then paused, a look of bemused horror on her face. “Good Lord, is there a butler?”

“There’s no butler and no House-elves either, before you get yourself worked into a tizzy,” Draco said. He’d have liked to have Tizzy herself serving, earning the ample wage they’d negotiated, but he’d known that no matter how comprehensive the benefits, Hermione would be distressed to be waited upon by a creature in a toweling jumpsuit, unable to convince herself she wasn’t taking advantage. “I thought butler’s pantry sounded better than glorified closet. I will now pause to allow you to make some comment along the lines of me being a posh git.”

“You’ve made that unnecessary now,” Hermione said, horror passed, smiling again.

“There’s a butler’s pantry because I needed a defined space I could configure for electricity to work. Neville said you have very strong opinions about the Panis tosti charm—”

“It’s shite,” she interrupted. “Utter bollocks. It’s a travesty to call what it does toast and everyone knows it and won’t admit it. Molly Weasley has five different toasting forks because the charm is such shite—”

“As I said, Very Strong Opinions, duly noted. Also, he said you have slightly less Strong Opinions on toasting forks, I believe they hearken too much to the Edwardian period for your taste, and so I had to make sure there was some part of the house where you could make a proper piece of toast in a toaster,” Draco explained. He opened the little hatch that concealed the toaster. “There’s also a charging station for any devices that need it.”

“Oh my goodness,” she said.

“You probably won’t short it all out if you cast a spell, but I’d try to keep it to a minimum and no wandless. When you channel magic through your hands directly, it warps the wards I put up,” he said.

“You did a lot of work,” she said. “Went to a lot of trouble.”

“What part of looking after properly was obscure to a witch of your erudition and exactitude?” Draco said. She’d think he was teasing and he was but he also meant it, especially the praise, which he’d been told to expect her to shrug off.

She shrugged.

“You didn’t have to,” she said.

“I only did what I thought I must. What I thought you would do, without a second thought, if you were the one taking care of someone,” Draco said. 

“I’ve never gotten Harry a toaster,” she said. 

“But he doesn’t ever seem to miss all the Mugglish equipment he grew up with. He was happy to leave it all behind,” Draco said. 

“He does love everything Wizarding,” Hermione said. “Even Celestina Warbeck.”

Draco could not help his grimace then, but Hermione gave him a look of the purest camaraderie and appreciation, suggesting his expression had not put her off in the slightest.

“I shan’t say a word. About his taste in music at least,” he said. “There’s a water closet just at the back, before the conservatory. We might explore there a bit or would you rather see the sleeping quarters upstairs?”

He spent a considerable amount of time mulling over how he’d mention where she would sleep to minimize any awkwardness, knowing he didn’t want to utter the word bed but that she’d immediately pick up on any verbal contortions to avoid it.

“Did you have Neville to see to the conservatory?” she asked, prescient. Longbottom had spent a week and the entire budget Draco had given him, but the results were lovely and marvelously fragrant.

“Yes,” Draco answered.

“Then I’ll have an idea of what it’s like already and I’ll enjoy finding out how I’m wrong later,” she said. “Take me upstairs.”

[urbanwood02]

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[varunnehra]

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[hometoursandotherstuff]

Mediterranean built in 1909 in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma has 5bd, 6ba, & is listed for $2.2M.

This home has been remodeled with modern decor as well as some of the original features. The entrance hall is full of art with black accents against pure white.

To the left of the hall is a sleek black office. It has a tin ceiling that could be original, and a ceiling fixture with a pop of gold.

Next, is a modern living room with the original fireplace updated.

Very large, modern dining room has an updated mid-century modern look.

The den has black walls, but the look is richly vintage. Antique furniture and a very classic tufted Chesterfield sofa.

Brand new white kitchen with a double chef's stove and pops of gray in the floor, island and light fixtures. They left an exposed brick far wall, but the bricks look new.

Love the colorful wallpaper and orange sink in the powder room, but I don't like how they installed it.

The dramatic stairs go up to a 3rd level.

A yellow bed really makes this bedroom pop.

The large main bd. is pale gray with black furniture and a pop of green area rug.

On the 3rd fl. is a spacious finished attic.

In the back of the home is a summer kitchen with sleek black cabinets.

Driving thru the porte cochere.

Huge brick surface for lots of parking, plus a 5 car garage.

Small garden behind the house.

[misseffect]

✨WIP Whenever✨

Tagged by @otemporanerys - thank you!

Tagging @angry-jager and @diaphanouso

Flashpoints is a shakarian AU but I'm allowing myself a little ill-advised shaeed fling. as a treat 😌😌

Zaeed almost looks surprised when he finds her at the door. Like he didn't really expect her to show.

“Drink?” he says, as she follows him in.

The room is smaller than she expected, though maybe that’s the trade-off for the balcony; Shepard can see a door handle and a slice of midnight peeking through long, half-drawn curtains on the far wall.

The surfaces are messy in patches: an open carry-on spilling sleeves and trouser legs onto the floor, discarded packets and open water bottles by the bed, a near-empty glass of whiskey on the end table by a dark green chesterfield sofa. The only light is two bedside lamps, sending long, soft shadows up the walls.

“Skip the preamble,” Shepard sets her bag on the vanity. “I know why I’m here.”

“Suit yourself.”

Zaeed crosses to the end table and slings back the last finger of whiskey. Shepard watches his shoulders through the movement, his dark blockwork tattoos just barely showing through his shirt, coiling above his collar and below his shirtsleeve. Whatever he says about smoking and drinking, he hasn’t let himself go.

He turns, one hand in his pocket, and beckons her with a finger. Shepard walks despite the indignity of being summoned, gratified by the way his eyes slide from her thighs to her tits, and when he kisses her it’s slow and dirty and tastes like whiskey.

It all feels refreshingly simple: he's rough in a careless, practised sort of way, curling one hand into her hair and mapping her out with the other – tits, arse, hips, back, in that order – while Shepard hangs on his collar. He smells equal parts better and worse up close; a soupy blend of stale cigarettes and faded cologne, both expensive, both differently intoxicating.

This is a bad idea. Maybe her best bad idea yet.

[innocentlymacabre]

Due North [Part 1]: 8 Brook Way

30.07.21 | Part 0

Fantasy meets slice-of-life in the secretive, wonderous, and oddity-rich lives of the residents of Due North

8 Brook Way currently held the form of a picturesque cottage, the likes of which can be found front and centre of just about every children’s book. It was quaint, simultaneously large and small, and somehow smelled wonderfully of fresh baked cookies even empty. It had taken on several forms over its extremely long life, several far more interesting than the one it currently donned, but its walls were presently abuzz with murmurs of excitement nonetheless.

8 Brook Way was no longer empty, and its new residents, Alberto Zecca and Isabella Autin, fawned over the shape it had taken for them. A tree, the type of which eluded every botanist that had ever attempted to classify it, stood guard from the backyard garden, its branches graciously extending to the perimeter, keeping time with the wind. It sang with the wind, hundreds of voices chiming in to make one, beautiful harmony that wafted throughout town, a siren call rumoured to be able to lift the spirits of those in mourning or even heal a broken heart. Ivy crawled across the bounding walls, weaving into its very make, and small, almost imperceptible paw prints and claw marks were pressed on top. The ivy snaked and stretched underground, far further down than anyone had ever explored, secrets resting on its every strand.

8 Brook Way was the only house in its vicinity, forming a sort of block of its own, and Brook Way was the closest street to the house, rather than the one it was on. The actual Brook Way skipped the number eight, an oddity that had led to several confused new postmen. Alberto and Isabella didn”t mind the confusion in the slightest – in fact, Alberto said it was one of the endless positives that came with the house.

Having moved in only a few hours ago, the pair were lounging on a chesterfield sofa that came with the house, in the otherwise almost unfurnished living room. The full moon shone brilliantly through the glass wall opposite them, the silver light falling delicately on each surface. Beyond it lay a presently untended garden, the moon’s light dipping and diving between its weeds and many, many secrets that Number 8 couldn’t wait for the residents to uncover.

It seemed though, it would have to wait. Tonight, the residents stayed indoors, unknowingly nested amidst the liveliest walls in the house.

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“I really don’t want to cook tonight,” Alberto complained.

“Yeah, I’m too tired too,” Isabella agreed. “What about that diner we passed on the way in? Something with an O,” she said, desperately trying to picture the wooden sign jutting out of the doorway. “Oh, it’s no use. We went by so quickly, the only thing I remember is that it was painted blue and green.”

“What about pizza? There’s always pizza.”

“But…diner!” Isabella protested, always having adored a good diner. “Come on, let’s just walk around town. It’s a small place, we’re bound to find it eventually.”

Alberto begrudgingly conceded, which is how they found themselves face to face with a man in a suspiciously large trench coat, asking for directions after having gone down three long, wrong roads. Isabella suspected he was hiding snakes under that coat, judging by the suspicious hissing sounds interspersing his speech, but the fact that said speech seemed to be exclusively rhymes annoyed her more. His confusing aid, if you could even call it that, led them to yet another wrong street.

They did, of course, eventually make it to the diner – “Ossario’s! I told you it had an O!” – after being seemingly guided by a particularly friendly dog. As they approached the establishment, Alberto thought he saw the paint of the building shimmering and changing colour slightly but dismissed it as hunger (and slight annoyance at Isabella’s insistence on eating at the diner, if he was honest).

The woman behind the wrap-around counter introduced herself as Alecia Ossario, the owner of the diner. If you passed her on the street, she would most likely end up as nothing more than a face you see in a dream and wake up trying to place. Yet, for some indescribable reason, both Alberto and Isabella couldn’t help but be drawn to her, intrigued by the notion of her very existence. The room’s light seemed to bend around her, respectfully leaving her untouched; but rather than leave her shrouded in the dark, she shimmered as she moved.

“I’m Isabella and he’s Alberto. We just moved in.”

“Berto and Bella – how sweet! I didn’t know number eight had gone to such a lovely couple,” Alecia said with a smile. She smiled with her eyes, her genuineness probably the only reason Bella noticed them. She couldn’t be sure because it really wasn’t the sort of thing you saw very often, but she swore she saw her eyes change colour.

“Oh! Oh, no,” Berto countered, a little tired of the same song and dance over and over again. “We’re not a couple.”

“Definitely not,” Bella picked up, easing him of the burden of explanation. “He’s a writer, and I’m an artist, so we can both work from wherever we want, as long as his editor and my gallery get something every now and then. “Wherever we want” just so happens to coincide, so we moved in together to save money.”

Alecia seemed impressed and asked a little about their work, Bella noticing each time her eyes changed colour, before segueing into their orders.

“We’re starved,” Bella blurted out before Berto had a chance to ask for a menu. “Whatever can be made the fastest.”

“Burgers and chips coming right up,” Alecia noted, turning to the kitchen.

The moment she was out of earshot, Bella pulled Berto in close. “Dude! Did you see –”

“Her eyes?” Berto interjected, nodding vigorously. “Yeah, I saw ‘em too. You know what else? I saw the paint on the outside change colour too.”

-----

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