Who: Coyote and Rave. What: Lazing and jogging in the park, respectively. Where: One of the many parks in New York. When: Saturday morning. Warnings: TBA.
Why people go jogging on days like this is a mystery to him. He watches them from behind his dark shades, watches the sweat gleam on their soft, pliable skins, and deduces that they may not be very clever or self-preserving, but some of them are pretty. Some of them are ugly too, and he turns his face away in disgust as a less than prize specimen goes trotting across the pavement in front of him. A second later he's reminded of a fattened bison trying to make good its escape, and it leaves the lean predator in him confused and hungry, spreading his arms along the back of the bench he's lounging on and crossing his right ankle over his left knee.
The past nights have been a celebration of his return to some of his former glory, and so there are the beginnings of a hangover throbbing dimly in the roots of his teeth and in his eyes as a bolt of blinding sun creeps into the side-space between sunglasses and pupils. It's been too long (a few days?) since he's woken up among a slew of bodies, but these recent mornings have been good ones, rolling over in someone else's bed and pressing kisses behind the ears of strangers, without knowing their names and without caring. One of the best things about godliness is that, as well as getting to consume amounts of alcohol that would soon poison a human, the hangover will never really reach him beyond its first stage. And he remembers everything with perfect clarity, from sauntering into stewing hot clubs in his leather jacket, to having it peeled off by the end of the night, along with every other piece of clothing. He remembers Abaddon's fall.
He's not so busy daydreaming that he doesn't notice the bright pink head of hair as it jogs past, and his hand snaps out like a cobra striking, fingers coiling around her wrist. "Hey!"