It didn't look on the verge of imminent collapse so Eames was largely untroubled. Her face was the peaceful blank of a very beautiful woman watching an event in the knowledge that she too was watched, there was a knowing awareness in the way she held her chin and the sharp blue eyes brimmed with if not amusement, than dry acknowledgment of irony.
Eames didn't think this belonged to the blond even in the furthest recesses of his mind (and she suspected that this creature didn't habit anywhere nearly so far back). It was fussy and she had an overwhelming impression that the dreamer was an aesthete. It was delightful, the room, if you were scouting locations for period pieces but it certainly wasn't Eames' taste, darling.
She smiled as sharply as broken glass from the lowered vantage point. To feel around for intuition in a dream was more dangerous than it sounded. It exposed your intuition in a construction delicately made, a paper flower, when you needed to keep your head above the waterline and manage to be invisible. She made a calculated decision in the split-second between a smile's bloom and fade and reached.
"Desire?" The blonde arched an eyebrow, the surprise of one entertained at a cabaret. "Really?"
But they were cutting up the rug, the sort of dancing that belonged in follow-spots and black and white. She followed beautifully, whether owing to the staging of this particular set or down to the steering done by the damnably in control personification who was stage management or indeed, to Eames' own skill-set, it was not adamantly clear.
"Must I?" The blonde sounded thoughtful, a philosophical question rather than an answer of any kind. If Desire was the kind of creature it would madden, Eames rather liked the idea. "It's very revealing. I found you, after all, darling. What are you doing in here?"