Re: Mat & Ren || The Docks
When she licks the soft gutter of her cupid’s bow, in some dark blue variety of contemplation, her eyes are affixed on the watery glints, like broken glass, of the fragmental peaks of the jittering lake pan. Her blood smoldering,“You think I’d be out here if anyone wanted me for a Mrs.?” Well, maybe she would. Though, in some earnest pit of her, a warm, electric jolt makes her nearly imperceptibly, momentarily stiffen in those faint white, sliverthin muscles. Her ex-husband wouldn’t be here! Why would he? She slingshot an owl-eyed, sudden glance up to the illumination of the house, windows like a crowd of sallow, alert eyes. Ideally, Caspar would be at home worshipping some uncanny, candelabra carousel of her possessions under an altar-like heading of her best photoshoots, highstepping around in her panties.
Oh, well. This water can’t be all that bad, she thinks, long-sighing back into their conversation, and sopping hair does become her, much in the same way it does any malignant siren. She notices, finally looking him in the face at close range, that he hasn’t irritated her very much. That it’s unfortunate she has to delete this memory from his dusky skull, like the backspace of a sentence that shouldn’t be sent. “You’re not so bad, Ren. What a shame.” she portends confidently, “Anyway, fortune favors the brave.”
Because, fuck it. At this point, she doesn’t care. She’s not the type to pass up an opportunity to do something dumb and dangerous. She’s over the edge and already swallowed whole by the opaque water. And ouch. Did we mention it was bitterly cold.