Two black sepulchers by the pink-carnation sea indolently wired along with the quiet bullet he'd shot. It seemed to be aimed toward the coffee. Barbed by the invisible shatter of the realization, she spoke nothing in return and made her way dutifully in route to where he'd pointed her. There was not one hint of her that seemed to mind he hadn't spoke what he'd wanted, in fact, it seemed to remedy the common chore of speaking at all. She hoped that the rest of the time she had to be here would be just as hushed. No such luck, as she castled a gray mug into her slender, ghost-white fingers, began filling it with black coffee, and the freckled one began her game again.
"So like, do you go to the beach a lot? The mall? Arcades?"
A blessing that the revenants back was to her, lest she see the dimming influence her words had on the very, very careless, unpredictable bakemono that she pruned the comfort of. Mo wondered what sort of face she would make if she were to ask her some of her own interesting brands of questions, but instead her grip on the pot only imagined the thick of her red hair. The snapping of tangles. The ripping. The surprise.
"Not really." The answer was bleak.
By now she'd suspended back to him on her string, put the coffee down gently before him. "You know what you want yet?" she asked, grateful for even the briefest distraction.