After the Show; After Party
"Three people, all at once?" Eve's eyebrow was a question-mark, as she made herself comfortable, "Surprised it didn't hurt, pumpkin, being yanked in different directions." The laugh this time was turned outward, to the people who guessed and grabbed and fumbled, sticky-fingered priests at the altar of another man's success, and was warm, drew him inside the mockery with the careless generosity of there being a better subject for her cruelty. She pulled the cigarette packet to her as though it were a friendly gesture rather than a challenge, and she leaned a shoulder against his, lighting her cigarette from the tip of his with an assumed familiarity that had her hip knocking his. Once lit, she showed no inclination to step back, and watched the progression of his hand with almost lazy interest, a little detached, too comfortable with the tricks and shows of blatancy for it to have much (if any) effect on her.
"Although I want those pants," Eve ran a finger along the waistband, where the topstitching went, idle in her appreciation. Her voice was softer than before, rich and loose as though relaxed, or as close to it as Eve ever was publicly. "They're nicer than mine." She smiled, something bright and clear that slid away into the old sly look and she took a half-step back, and let her hand drop.