[ A joke as much as any of the rest of it — he's fully capable of lying when it suits him, but with her— well, he's tried not to let her down. Now, for instance, he arrives with a tote bag slung over his shoulder, from which he produces a 6-pack of peach-mango juice boxes. As he takes a seat near her, he starts tearing the plastic that holds it together; when he manages to pull one box free, it's still one moment longer — taken to unwrap the straw and poke it through the little foil hole — before he hands it to her. He reaches into the bag one more time after that, retrieving a mini tub — just about the size of half a can of soda — of Maldon salt. ]
Who'd you get into a tussle with, then? Or, wait, does a lady never kiss and tell?
[ she murmurs a small thank you as she reaches for the little juice box, pursing her lips around the flimsy plastic straw as she drains the box in one go. a pinch of salt to wash the sweetness, sucking on her tongue, sticking it to the roof of her mouth.
salt to wash the wound; sweetblood to nourish. an echo of old habits, the consecration of the flesh. with her eyes falling closed she mouths along an old prayer, familiar latin but aimed a little lower.
the ache in her leg hums against her bones. she wants to reach for him. knee to floor, cheek to lap, fingers to eyes as cover. ]
[ He smiles, lopsided, as he watches her drink, only glancing away to set the rest of the juice boxes on the little table near them. Funny — he'd given up on any kind of prayer a long time ago, whether delivered up high or down, down beneath the earth. She still holds onto— something. He's not sure what. They haven't really spoken about it, not yet. ]
Sounds like a good kid.
[ That's about as far as he'll take the inquiry — asking whether or not she's dead seems uncouth, somehow. ]
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no subject
[ A joke as much as any of the rest of it — he's fully capable of lying when it suits him, but with her— well, he's tried not to let her down. Now, for instance, he arrives with a tote bag slung over his shoulder, from which he produces a 6-pack of peach-mango juice boxes. As he takes a seat near her, he starts tearing the plastic that holds it together; when he manages to pull one box free, it's still one moment longer — taken to unwrap the straw and poke it through the little foil hole — before he hands it to her. He reaches into the bag one more time after that, retrieving a mini tub — just about the size of half a can of soda — of Maldon salt. ]
Who'd you get into a tussle with, then? Or, wait, does a lady never kiss and tell?
no subject
[ she murmurs a small thank you as she reaches for the little juice box, pursing her lips around the flimsy plastic straw as she drains the box in one go. a pinch of salt to wash the sweetness, sucking on her tongue, sticking it to the roof of her mouth.
salt to wash the wound; sweetblood to nourish. an echo of old habits, the consecration of the flesh. with her eyes falling closed she mouths along an old prayer, familiar latin but aimed a little lower.
the ache in her leg hums against her bones. she wants to reach for him. knee to floor, cheek to lap, fingers to eyes as cover. ]
They had a kid. Pretty girl, about twelve.
Came home early from a sleepover.
no subject
Sounds like a good kid.
[ That's about as far as he'll take the inquiry — asking whether or not she's dead seems uncouth, somehow. ]
Good a reason as any to get distracted.