This particular Enlightened did not make a habit of noticing how people reacted to her. Matter of fact, she made a point of trying not to unless it really rubbed her up the wrong way. The use of her name in most sentences by a voice she didn’t recognise went ignored. Most of the time. In… theory. In practice, the hand that used to hold the matches brushed her hair from out of her face with a vague kind of confusion while the other flicked the already-lit match away before her fingertips burned. Which they were about to. For some reason, what this guy had said had caught her attention, though, and she glanced at him over her shoulder, leaning back on one heel while the other foot flashed its bright red sole at him. “Cherry Wilder carries matches,” she corrected in the tone of one who had either been told or had read too many facts about herself, true or not. “And I’ve been dead since 1985, stud -- not much of me can be called new.” She wasn’t being a bitch, she was just stating facts. Even her return album had been written in the 80s, all of it about Duke and Cash and dying in general.
That being said, she did have to smile at being called ‘old school’. She wasn’t even as old as Steven Tyler or Mick Jagger or anybody she would maybe, just maybe consider old school. And maybe she wasn’t so likely to give anybody a call or necessarily hand out her shoes, but she had a fuckton of cards to hand out. Kage called them business cards, but all they ever did was get high, so… whatever. She’d do that in a bit. Once she’d found the cards in her bag and -- oh, her flask. In the effort to lean against something that wasn’t obviously mortal or funky-smelling (well, he was funky-smelling), Cherry had ended up wrapped around the nearest streetlight a bit like it was her best friend. Not that she’d noticed -- she was too busy going through her bag, then knocking back pretty much what was left of her Very Stoned Angelic. There was just something about… something in this situation here that she wasn’t sure she could put her finger on? But she didn’t think it was right. But then when she was stoned she got freaked out by shit like cars with really bright headlights. Japan was a total nightmare.
“Hold the fuck up,” she demanded, regardless of what was actually going on with the other two -- she wasn’t watching or listening, instead she was twirling around the streetlight like a child. “I-- You-- No, you both smell wrong.” And that was, for now, all Cherry had to say on the matter.