Just what brand of lunatic had he taken her for? Of course she’d optimistically fantasized about potential, future bloodsopped rampages. What sane person wouldn’t? In these enthusiastic vision(s), there is always the donning of an immaculate McQueen. Her, some vibrant cross between Gorgon and Faerie Queen in hypodermic high heels, funereal patent, glinting knifelike with impassive glee. She’d use that ethereal highlight and contour palette, the one that Salome herself would’ve brushed on before asking for the head of John the Baptist. She’d redden her lips. She’d take these fake glasses off. She’d…
“I can always spot a knitter,” she’d said, without having batted one pulse of those bambi-lashes; not wanting to seem too eager. She was still leaning on her palm, staring placidly up at him. Was this a trick? Nothing this fun ever happens. She’d only decided to work here, because she'd figured being hedged in by so many books would feel good. Was she ever fucking mistaken. She illuminated at the prospect being real, half-smiled, squinted in impish curiosity. “Tell me all there is to know. Would we leave now, or...?” this outfit would do.
“Hey,” Dwayne began, having ambled up in his skunky weedsmoke tuft. “Can you…”
“Fuck off.” she’d said, without even looking at the interloper.