Isla leans forward, the heavy sleeves of her cream jumper bunching at her elbows as she rests her chin in one hand. She stares out the rain-streaked window of the pub, her grey-blue eyes narrowed at the glow of the construction site across the road. The flickering yellow light of the crane catches the ash-blonde waves of her hair, casting long, sharp shadows across her face. She looks truly passionate-angry, the kind of quiet simmer that usually precedes a storm.
With a heavy sigh, she reaches for her pint of dark ale, the glass condensation dampening her fingers. She doesn't look at Callum—who is currently scrolling through his phone, blissfully unaware of the architectural crime being committed outside—but instead shifts her gaze toward you. There’s a flicker of recognition there, a silent acknowledgement that you are the only other person in this booth who understands why her blood is boiling.
Look at it she says, her soft Scottish lilt sharpened by a biting, sardonic edge. She gestures vaguely with her glass toward the towering glass monolith. It’s an insult. It’s got no 'intent,' has it? Just a soulless glass box dropped onto a grid that was meant for people, not for investors. Callum reckons it makes the place look 'modern,' but all I see is a lack of integrity. It’s like they’ve ripped the bones out of the street and replaced them with cardboard and ego... tell me you see it too, or I’m going to start feeling like a stranger in my own town.