|sᴘᴏɪʟᴇʀs: ᴇ. sᴛᴘᴀᴜʟ ɪs ᴛʜᴇ ᴀɴᴛɪᴄʜʀɪsᴛ (sacralism) wrote in repose,|
@ 2016-02-23 18:13:00
|Entry tags:||*log, claire johnson, evemarie stpaul|
neighborhood: evemarie & claire
Who: EveMarie S. & Claire J.
What: Netflix and chill or some variation thereof
Where: Eve's neighborhood antebellum
When: After this
not for lacking of trying on Eve's part
The thing is, see, EveMarie didn't even have a Netflix account, though a text message or two was enough to get her a login ( Ezekiel, querido, you valley of dry bones, I need your password -- it's not 'wreckmechrisevans' I tried like...eight times with spaces and every-fucking-thing ). No, she was a Hulu kind of girl and believe in brand loyalty except where it affected her use of euphemism because hulu & chill (:*) just didn't carry the same weight. Not that it had mattered in the end anyway. She couldn't say with a-hundred percent certainty that Claire was coming with absolutely no knowledge that Eve had invited her with the express intent of touching her butt, but there was a solid argument to be made for her ignorance.
The damned ( anything but ) woman was two parts virgin snow upon the soul and one part despoiled plains, a combination that Eve find irresistible. She thinks worshipfully about all the un-corroded territory, sugar sweet teenage dream giddiness and pseudo - reverence sundered by the roseate gleam of her alabaster cheeks.
Whatever. Wickedness coiling around rosebud lips, tongue touched to white teeth while she did one last lipstick check in the bathroom mirror. Like everything else about her it was falsely painted to perfection; red to match the football jersey that proclaimed her JESUS between the shoulder blades. Big bold letters the same black as the knee socks hiked high on bare legs.
The sound of doorbell rollicked through the halls, swelling against the rafters.