Mat & Open || Heading toward the Docks
There’s a dwindling supply of ballistics that can exsanguinate innerdemons as carbon steel as our leading lady’s. Vodka being chief among them, it was this distinct spirit for which she’d taken her aim. Though truth be told, like any chthonic, self-respecting witch on Hexennacht, she had already pre-gamed on the trek here (she had much wistfulness to digest, you see). But the warm, fermented comfort of the bitter rednesses of those Bloody Mary’s was long since fading.
There’s the rosequartz wash of her supernal cheekbones in the kitchen (her first destination), the red cut of her smile. The intentionally pixyish slant of her head, “A martini, please,” but, also, she specified. “Filthy.” and then also, also, “Actually, I need two of those. My friends over there,” (Over where? What friend?) “They also want one. They’re over there, behind the uh,” Here, a quick turn of her glance, trained in the art of deadpan improv, likely as well as this theatre boy bartender friend of Hugh’s, “Behind that… shiny thing.” But then again, he’d recognized her. He’d seen her in that painful, middle school miniseries, where she’d played some ingénue in Gingham and smiled so much her teeth hurt between takes. She’d gone around the corner once he’d given her what she’d wanted, siphoned both drinks in a manner that could melt the peachfuzz off of a maenads thighs, and then went back for one more, for the road.
And now she felt much better! She is carefully descending, filthy martini and lit cigarette in tow, down the stone steps toward the docks, singing with surprising glamour: