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Doors Halloween (doorsween) wrote in doorslogs,

Re: Third class, dining.
The little mime didn't care about things like wrinkles. She wasn't even old enough to worry about the white paint settling into lines and making them more pronounced. The mime just thought the woman looked hysterical when she frowned. It was funny to see that stern and beautiful face looked doooooooown. It was her turn to frown when the woman's face smoothed out. Boring. She frowned, and she sighed an exaggerated and soundless sigh. Her hand went beneath her chin, the white-gloved palm holding her up in her newfound boredom. Even that ugly crease of rose in the corner of the woman's mouth didn't make her less bored.

But the spraying water fixed everything, and the grossly divine woman stumbling made everything even better. When the woman stumbled, the little mime shoved her hard. Then that gloved hand went to the mime's mouth again, and the little black lines did nothing to hide the very obvious tittering.

That felt much better
than anything
so far.

The mime pointed at the fatale's impractical shoes, then she tugged her suspenders proudly with her thumbs and lifted her own practical tennis shoes. One foot. Two foot. Splosh. Suddenly, things seemed better for the little mime. What did it matter if her face looked sad when she wasn't sad at all? She kicked up some water for good measure. Spray. She stomped like a child in a puddle, and only the rain boots were missing. Splash.

She looked at the bedraggled starlet, and she pouted in mock sympathy. It was an exaggerated pout, and even the little black lines at the edges of her lips had trouble keeping up with it. Her eyes were bright and gleeful in defiance of the downturned lips.

Poor, poor starlet she'd
never get
a man
now.
(Not ever!)