Rodeo watches her move down the levels of the fountain, scrappy and quick as a stray cat. That's what she reminds him of, he decides-- not a rat, but a lean black cat with needle-sharp teeth and hungry eyes. He meets her gaze when she hits the ground, fascinated as ever by those big wide blues, her iris the size of the sky over the Greenbelt. Her pupils are dilated with a Prax comedown. She'll need more soon. Not want, need. His understanding of that is devastatingly acute. Is all of this really his fault? Had he not found that warehouse full of wash, would someone else be peddling it to her? What if he had destroyed it when he found it-- where would she be then?
It's too late for what-ifs. He can't change the past. He can only move forward.
"A real big-screen bombshell," Rodeo agrees, drawing on his cigarette and taking out the pack to offer her one. Lucky Strike-- despite the finite nature of his favorite brand of smokes, he's not afraid to offer them out to her. One day he'll run out, but he can only hope the Lord lays him down before that day comes. "I'd come see your movies, darlin'. I'd put your poster up on my wall to look at when I'm feelin' lonesome." There's a bit of a dirty implication there, but he doesn't bother worrying she'll be offended.
She complains that it's hot, and there's something strangely sweet about her little sigh. It compels Rodeo to stick his cigarette in the corner of his mouth, bending down to pick up a loose tile off the ground. He lifts it, the cigarette still clamped between his lips as he waves it up and down to fan Emilie. He watches the breeze he creates rustle her tangles of dark hair, and he switches the tile to one hand and lifts the other to pluck the cigarette from his mouth. "Better now, beautiful?"