[ jesus christ. in real time richie is on a bench on a goddamn crowded nashville sidewalk, each subsequent text doing the simultaneous work of squeezing the air out of his lungs and making that passive white-noise unhappiness in the back of his head churn even more loudly.
he puts his phone away, swallows hard, feels the distant sting of irritation that even this kind of shit makes him want to cry. he's forty, for god's sake. he pushes his fingertips up under his glasses to scrub at his eyes, sucks in a good, long sniffle.
he stays on the bench for awhile until his phone buzzes again, telling him to head back to the studio. (voiceover work: anything for a buck, even now.) that much he can do, and after that recording session lets out at night he's pretty sure nashville isn't the worst place to get hammered, so. there he goes. ]
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he puts his phone away, swallows hard, feels the distant sting of irritation that even this kind of shit makes him want to cry. he's forty, for god's sake. he pushes his fingertips up under his glasses to scrub at his eyes, sucks in a good, long sniffle.
he stays on the bench for awhile until his phone buzzes again, telling him to head back to the studio. (voiceover work: anything for a buck, even now.) that much he can do, and after that recording session lets out at night he's pretty sure nashville isn't the worst place to get hammered, so. there he goes. ]