Re: Dining room
Life was all judgment.What did the clothes say about a person? How they moved? What could be gleaned from their being before they ever opened their mouth? She was as efficient with the scalpel edge of her discrimination as any surgeon worth the title, but hers could be wielded scythelike, a person cut down before the glimmer of kitten green eyes. The moment he had walked in, with nothing more than a quick sweep of her gaze, she took him in and let him go, a cat with a mouse and he with her attention.
The grin was too wide, the scarred hands like those of a boxers', the saddle shoes all added up to a man that likely socially inept. But even the socially inept could have money, and sometimes some poor girl found them adorable, like a three legged dog or a one eyed cat, and could tolerate their graceless ways and Frankenstein hands. Maybe he had already found the girl that would twist and shout with him in his saddle shoes and her in her poodle skirt, the pair of them moving like corkscrews made alive and directionless without hands to guide.
Maybe.
A seller's world was full of infinite possibilities and one never turned one down when one had the goods to offer envious hands. And he was not so poor that he cursed to have his shoes ruined. Still a perhaps, a maybe, a giant question mark. Of course if it took every bit of currency in his pockets and bank account to afford what she had on her, she would take it all and blow him a kiss as she walked out the door. "Awesome," she repeated, the word drawing over her tongue like waves at the ship they were on. It lacked definitive inflection, the word flirting up with disbelief before skipping over the line and rubbing itself comfortably against wonder. Her back straightened, implying a passing interest, as legs that could only fake being demure crossed at the ankles and slid beneath her chair.