Re: At the bar Then he should be the one to give it back? Wondering how pretty the sunflower maiden's skull would be as an ice cream bowl, as she teetered side-to-side on the drunken highwire... there was the notepad; her kitty moth's eyes drawn to its illumination.
Why it was that darkness's concubine desired so to be cruel to the fortune of ... what? As if he deserved it was a concept beyond the haunted island of her comprehension, he really didn't, Maybe the clue would be in the mirror tomorrow morning. Maybe she wanted to really make him hate her. Why was he acting like he didn't? What did the smile look like screaming? Could she make him scream?
What was she thinking?
Usually, she would've slapped that notepad out of his hand, but instead she glanced back to the gingerbread music box she'd crept out of over her shoulder, as if for an origin of where that wrath was coming from. Instead of an answer, faced with the sight of excess company Dria was attracting while alone; couldn't be wanted. Key wound up, forget-me-nots and forget-me-soons, the chiffon puppet swooped to her now ready drinks, plucked them from the vine and left without writing, saying, or looking.