There was a riot of insects cooping about the circlet of overhead lightpoles. She’d sidled a glance upward out of curiosity. Someone had lurched past the duet of breathless smokers. This person had slapped their own forearm, fazed at something. Elly took the reason to be nightborne bloodsuckers, numbskulled by millimeter brains, if one could call what they had brains. Their own hunger was immortally endless, egg after egg, as the nightkindred who sat rapt underneath the very same snare of artificial light.
“So what’s got you out in these high-priced slums?” she’d asked, coming back, her brows shadow-charcoaled in slender channels, raised up a few times for emphasis. She was an animated type, never stolid like her maker was. The contrast was always significant in all who ever had the distinct pleasure of being around them both at the same time. She leaned a bony elbow back onto the stair behind her, hiked one knee over another. Her ankle bobbed once her legs were crossed, lazily.
“With these bitches who have no idea that a decade or two ago, they woulda got chased the fuck out, with their Chanel torn off and sold at Penn station?” Here, she batted her lashes. Her smile is a blatant jot of mischief.