Re: [Strip club: Nel & Eames]
Eames was thinking acquisitively of the scarf. It looked deceptively sinuous, the heaviness of exceptional fabric. The pattern was a motley of color that Eames could easily be fond of. He wasn't acquisitive when it came to the woman. Eames was rarely acquisitive, acquisition required a lot of work darling, and Eames managed perfectly all right without needing anything or anyone in particular. Which was quite aside from the blindingly obvious fact that the woman was here for the tits.
He didn't have much in the way of societal expectations of womankind. Dreaming allowed you to lose convention conveniently on the way down, and Eames' frame of reference for women was elastic, taking in consciousness and subconsciousness in equal measure. But she was downing her drink and Eames sipped his, which was incongruous for a very large man.
"Oh I don't think so," Eames said affably, with lazy interest settling on the dancers like cigarette smoke. "That would suggest a vague possibility of you prattling, darling. You don't look like you prattle regularly," with a dipped grin that was more mischief than much else. He didn't bother to glance down at his own shirt, Eames knew what it looked like.
"Doesn't it?" he agreed. "Or an ambitious seaside. They're either fronds or jellyfish." Now he glanced down. "Do you know the Caribbean well?" It might explain the accent. Refined, like sugar grown and cultivated and sifted back into good, cut-glass order by the end.